


Said I'll Be Fine

by 1833outboy (phancon)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Illness, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2019-09-30 23:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17232806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phancon/pseuds/1833outboy
Summary: It's 2005, Fall Out Boy's second album is about to drop and more and more people are noticing. Warped Tour, TV interviews, radio play... They're climbing to the top and nothing can stop them.Then Patrick finds out he has cancer.





	1. brace yourself, bite your lips

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends! ok so, this is a story based fairly loosely on the netflix movie, 50/50. it's really good and has gordon joseph-levitt in it, check it out! or... actually, don't yet? because there are still vague spoilers for this fic in it. a couple lines of dialogue in this fic (the doctor's medical explanations) are quoted from the movie. 
> 
> please heed the tags and be aware that this fic centres around a character with cancer. i wouldn't recommend reading if that's an illness that could be triggering to you. take care of yourself first. 
> 
> and thanks to @SnitchesAndTalkers for looking this over and offering encouragement!

It’s raining heavily in Chicago, the smell of it thick in the air as Patrick jogs to his car, shivering a little in the mid morning April breeze before hopping into the driver’s seat. He pulls his jacket tighter against himself and wipes his glasses on his already damp sleeve as he starts the car. The Chicago traffic is blissfully quiet on the way to Pete’s parents house. Patrick can’t get out of bed before 10am unless absolutely necessary, he has strict rules about that; avoiding the morning rush-hour traffic is not the reason, but it is a good consequence of some pretty lazy sleeping patterns.

He gets to Pete’s fairly early, though it still isn’t long before Pete is running up to the car and climbing into the passenger side, waving at the kitchen window where his mom is watching them. 

“All right?” asks Patrick as he pulls away from the house, not looking at him and doing his usual routine of nonchalant indifference that neither of them ever really believe.

“As rain, dude,” Pete replies with a lazy smile, leaning forward a little in his seat and fiddling with the radio station. This has been them for months now. Patrick’s been waiting for something to give. So far, nothing has. Patrick worries, Pete smiles. They act like Pete didn’t try and leave the world a few months ago. Rinse, repeat.

“Your back still bothering you?” Pete asks as Patrick’s hand awkwardly massages along the length of the bottom half of his spine while he drives.

“Kinda. Got another appointment later.” Patrick is trying to move his spine in a way that might make it ache less. Hard to do while driving, and not really very helpful.

“You and Hannah been going at it in weird ass positions or something? You know you can tell me, right, dude?” Pete only grins like a Cheshire cat when Patrick flips him off. “I’m just saying. You can seriously pull a muscle if you’re like, trying it – froggy style or something.”

“Froggy— I really don’t wanna know what that is,” Patrick replies, frowning.

Pete, as usual, ignores this request. “These girls showed me a few years ago, after an Arma show. It’s kinda like doggy style, but—”

“Stop talking,” Pete is interrupted very loudly, and Patrick is sure – deathly so – that absolutely nothing about the description of any sex position Pete’s attempted is something he wants to know about. “Jesus, just— Why the interest in my fucking sex life?”

“I don’t,” Pete mutters, and Patrick’s not sure if he’s imagining the odd dull timbre of his voice. “I’m not. I'm just saying… you shouldn’t be having sex with her if it hurts your back.”

Patrick sighs, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “If…” He stops, hesitates, and wonders how many times he questions his decisions while in Pete’s presence. Whatever. “If you must know… we haven’t actually had any sex in like, a while – weird or not.”

Pete frowns, leaning forward with apparent interest. “What, since your back started hurting, or…?”

“No… No, a bit before then,” Patrick mutters. He refuses to admit he hasn’t gotten laid in about four months. “It’s just – I don’t know, shit happens. She was away at that job in New York, and then…” He pauses. _I didn’t feel like having sex just after you tried to kill yourself,_ seems like very much the wrong thing to say. “Then I was on tour in Europe. And we just… It happens. We were busy.”

“She was at that New York thing back in January,” says Pete, and yeah—okay, fuck, maybe Patrick didn’t think that whole ‘refusing to admit he hasn’t gotten laid in four months’ thing through. To be fair, he’s exhausted, hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep since his back started making him feel like an eighty-year-old. He blames this entire conversation on that.

“Yes, she was,” he mutters, trying to keep his eyes on the road, gaze flickering back to Pete despite himself.

“Okay,” says Pete, and there’s an upward quirk to his brow, to his lips, that Patrick doesn’t like. He almost looks a little smug, the ass.

“It’s fine, dude,” Patrick snaps, frowning at the road as he signals and turns into the studio parking lot. “Me and Hannah have, like, a deep connection – it goes way beyond sex. This is special.” If he says and thinks this often enough, it might wind up being true, maybe.

He must’ve imagined that look of smugness before, Pete just looks sort of surly now. He’s frowning as he mutters, hand on the door handle as Patrick parks up, “Whatever you say, man. You’re the one not getting laid.”

Patrick could point out here that considering Pete doesn’t even have a girlfriend at the moment, that’s probably at least a little true for him as well. He follows Pete into the studio in silence instead.

They’re both quiet as they make their way into the studio. It’s a little odd because usually Pete’s talking a mile a minute about what they’ll be recording and how the album will go down and about a million other things. He seems distracted and vaguely annoyed as they get set up, and Patrick’s having trouble working out why.

They don’t have much left to do at all. In fact, Patrick is pretty confident the whole record will be mostly done, awaiting only their manager and producer for approval, by the time he has to make it to his appointment later.

Joe and Andy arrive within the first hour, and Pete’s bad mood seems to disappear as the four of them get into their usual routine. That means they all spend a lot of the session goofing off and shooting the shit, of course, rather than being especially productive. Still, Patrick isn’t worried; the only reason he’d insisted they weren’t done yet is because he’d wanted to improve the vocal mixing on XO. He could probably have done it by himself to be honest, the others aren’t really contributing a whole lot right now, but he can’t deny he’s glad for the company.     

“You think we’ll have to come in tomorrow too?” Joe asks, fiddling with some headphones while Patrick listens to the final verse for about the tenth time in the last fifteen minutes.

“No,” he mutters. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment this afternoon, but we should probably get this shit done before then, I think.”

“Oh. Your back, right?” Patrick looks up, not hiding his surprise that Joe remembered. Joe laughs. “Give me a little credit, I am _occasionally_ known to take stuff in. And you’ve been complaining about your back for like, months.”

“It’s been one month, tops, and with any luck I’ll stop complaining about it soon, I guess,” Patrick says with a shrug, turning back to his computer.

“Oh, hallelujah!” cries Pete from where he and Andy are messing with the recording equipment on the other side of the room.

Patrick flips him off, grinning. “Shut up and give me a hand here, asshat. Both of you. I need a third and fourth opinion.”

They manage to get the editing done half an hour before Patrick has to leave for the doctor’s and celebrate with Del Taco from the place opposite the studio.

“Is Hannah coming to that press party on Saturday?” Pete asks from where he sits next to Patrick on the sofa. He’s swiping at the sauce that’s fallen from his taco with his finger, and there’s a small frown on his face that Patrick’s noticed seems to appear whenever Hannah comes into the conversation. Patrick gets the feeling Pete doesn’t like her very much, though he’s not really sure why. As far as he remembers, they’ve barely spoken. She did accidentally call him Peter Wuntz when they first met, but that seems a funny reason to hold a grudge.

He pauses, trying to recall what the hell Pete is talking about. They have a small show on Saturday, but he can’t remember being told about any kind of party. “Press… what?”

“After the show, the little party thing at the hotel – they said we can bring whoever the fuck we want, so I was just asking—”

“Woah, you didn’t say there was any kind of party after we played.”

Pete stills a little, sucking the sauce from his pinkie finger and giving Patrick a look of wide-eyed innocence. “I didn’t?”  

“No,” says Patrick, irritation raising his voice.

“Uh,” Pete offers a sheepish smile. “There’s an after party on Saturday?”

“For God’s sake, Pete. You have to tell us shit like this – preferably more than a few days’ in advance. I hate surprises.”

“I told Andy!” Andy, it should be noted, is not here, having disappeared to a vegan place with his girlfriend before they started eating their dead animals or whatever.

“Yeah, Andy told me,” Joe says through a mouthful of beef and beans.

“You all knew?” Patrick is perhaps more affronted than he has the right to be. But come on. No one thought to let him know?

“I thought Pete had already told you,” says Joe, shrugging, as though it were obvious. This would be a fairly reasonable assumption to make, it is Pete's job. Pete’s definitely the main culprit here.

“Because he should have,” grumbles Patrick.

“Oh, come on, man. Relax,” Pete sighs. “It’s just a little party – we probably won’t even be there long.”

Patrick shakes his head. “You know that’s not the point.”

“I’ll tell you everything I learn from our manager, PR guy, producer and everyone else as soon as I get off the phone with them in the future. Okay, ‘Tricky?” Pete is laying it on thick. He leans close, resting his head against Patrick’s shoulder and looking up at him with doe amber eyes. There’s a bit of sauce marking the curve of his lips. Patrick is about to wipe it off before he realises that’d probably be weird; he looks away instead.

“Fine, whatever,” he mutters, and Pete laughs in some kind of victory. Still, his head stays on Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick can’t find the energy to push him off. “I guess I’ll ask Hannah. She might be working though. She’s had to work late a lot lately.” 

Pete smirks. “Making her too tired for parties – or anything else that might be considered _fun_ in the evening, right?” His voice is teasing, but quiet enough that Joe can’t hear. Patrick feels heat creep into his cheeks; this does at least give him the energy and motivation to knock Pete’s head off his shoulder with his elbow.

Pete only laughs again, Patrick’s muttered, “ass,” doing little more than making him knock his shoulder against Patrick’s playfully. Patrick lets him, sighing down at his burrito.

“I think this is it, you know,” says Pete after a few seconds or so of comfortable silence, wiping the salsa from his lips with his tongue. “This album’s gonna rock the world.”

“So, you keep saying,” says Patrick, but he’s wearing a small smile now.

“Must be the fourth time this week,” Joe adds.

“Then it’s the fourth time this week of complete honesty from me. I’m telling you,” Pete says. “Dude, I cannot wait for Warped, it’s gonna be so fucking good this year.”

Patrick smiles around another bite of food. If nothing else, he can appreciate how much Pete loves to tour. Patrick’s favourite part of doing this thing has always been the actual process of making music, but for Pete it’s always seemed to be about showing that music off on stage. Patrick knows how much it killed him to have to stay at home while the rest of the band went to Europe – it didn’t seem to bother him at the time, but it did when they came back, Patrick could tell.  

They’ve just come off another short bout of shows a few weeks ago, but they’re due to start up again as soon as their album drops. Warped tour is just around the corner and none of them can really believe they’re still living this, four years later. Patrick is beginning to think that maybe his fears of having to move back to Glenview and get a real job might actually be a little unfounded. Maybe they can do this and look at it more long term than just the current album, the current tour, the current show.  

Their manager is even convinced they’ll actually get radio play on some popular stations, and Pete seems to agree. Patrick will believe that when he hears it. 

“Hey, don’t you need to leave for that doctor’s appointment already?” Joe asks, frowning at his phone.

 Patrick glances down at his watch, immediately shoving the last of the burrito into his mouth when he realises he should really have left several minutes ago. He nods, patting Pete on the shoulder as he gets to his feet and mumbling around a mouth full of food, “C’mon, man. Still gotta drop your ass off.”

Pete goes to follow Patrick, screwing up the empty wrapper of his burrito and hitting Joe on the head with it on their way out. “See you tomorrow, man.”

The drive to Pete’s house is quiet, Pete apparently choosing to keep his thoughts to himself again.

It’s only as Patrick pulls up beside the Wentz residence that he turns to Patrick, frowning slightly. “Text me how the doctors goes, ‘kay?” he says, hand on the door handle.

Patrick makes a vague noise of agreement, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. It’s not unusual for him to be a little nervous prior to doctors’ appointments. He hates hospitals. Even more so recently.   

“You’re not worried, right?” Pete asks, hesitating for a second. “You know it’s not serious. I mean, probably like... a pulled muscle or something, right? Backs are weird, all sorts of stuff make them hurt.”

“Yeah, dude,” Patrick mutters, and smiles a smile that he hopes appears at least marginally natural. “I know. Probably just give me pain meds and tell me to wait until it disappears in a few weeks.”

Pete doesn’t seem entirely convinced that Patrick believes that. Of course he doesn’t. He opens and closes his mouth for a few seconds, as though he wants to add something else. In the end though, he only offers a small smile, something reassuring dancing in his copper eyes, and gives a short wave before getting out of the car.

**

When Patrick was little, maybe five or six years old, his dad started getting a sharp pain in his knee when he spent too much time walking on it. He put it off for months before Patrick’s mom finally forced him to go to the doctors and see what the matter was. It turned out to be a torn ligament; he needed surgery.

Patrick doesn’t remember it being an especially long or harrowing process. He remembers his parents being frustrated – though he now realises that was more to do with the cost and pricing up how much of it their insurance would cover, more than any worry about things going wrong or anything. He remembers visiting his dad in the hospital shortly after the surgery. But his dad had come home the following day, and he’d been on his feet again within a few weeks.

Patrick keeps thinking of this, for some reason, as he checks himself into the hospital reception and is led down white walled hallways lined with professional looking plaques hanging on doors. He thinks about whether or not this back pain will be as bad as to need surgery, and if that surgery will go by as quick and relatively painless as his father’s had.  

Thinking of his dad is almost a good distraction though, in a way. It keeps his mind occupied, keeps him from thinking about the time he was here a few months back. That had been all he could think about when he was at the hospital last week having the MRI and the blood tests: waiting in a cold, uncomfortable, plastic chair while Pete lied in a bed somewhere nearby.

Now all he can think of is the discoloration in the skin on his dad’s knee and how he’d had several weeks off from work where he’d not been able to walk further than the bathroom, and how he and Patrick’s mother had continuously argued about it.

Patrick’s not sure what he’ll do if they suggest surgery and he has to rest for several months. He can’t do that to the band.

He hopes it’ll just be a case of the doctor giving him something, even if just to help with the pain. The Tylenol and Advil he’s taking don’t seem nearly strong enough.

Something to help with the night sweats would also be a welcome relief. Hannah tells him it’s okay when they wake up each morning with their sheets covered in his sweat, but there’s a slight air of passive aggressive irritation in her tone that won’t leave him alone. He’s always been a sweaty guy, but until recently he’d never had to worry about jerking awake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat that has soaked his sheets, back pulsing in pain. Usually it’s just singing - performing - that makes him sweat like crazy.

He’s been waiting silently in the office for about ten minutes, biting his bottom lip and reading the printed posters warning of heart disease and diabetes to distract from thoughts of surgery and sweaty bedsheets, when Dr Rowland finally shows up. He only spoke to her briefly last week; she didn’t seem particularly talkative or overly friendly then, and apparently that hasn’t changed. She strides past his chair without any comment or apology for the lateness and takes a seat behind her desk.

Patrick smiles. The doctor doesn’t smile back. She doesn’t look at Patrick either for a long moment, instead speaking into the tape recorder she picks up from her desk, “Patient has been complaining of back pain and night sweats. Blood tests and urine analysis are normal. MRI suggests a massive intradural malignant schwannoma neurofibrosarcoma extending in the psaos muscle with nerve root compression syndrome and bone erosion. The growth extends from L2 to L5. Will Send the patient to biopsy to confirm…”

Patrick wonders if the doctor is talking about him, then realises there’s no one else she could really be talking about. He has no idea what half of those jumble of words mean. He stares, and Dr Rowland looks at him with a frown, as though just noticing he’s there. She clicks a button on the recording.    

“Is there something… wrong?” Patrick asks, a slow confusing stirring in his gut telling him that something definitely feels wrong. “I don’t…”

Dr Rowland attempts what must be a smile for the first time since Patrick walked into her office. Patrick’s not sure if it’s meant to be comforting. It’s gone in seconds. “If you’ll take a look here,” she shifts her computer monitor so Patrick can see what looks like an MRI scan. An MRI of his spine, he realises. “You see the growth along the length of your spinal column?”

Patrick nods, because it does look like there’s something there that shouldn’t be, though he’s never seen an MRI scan of his spine, or any other spine, to compare it to.

“That’s a schwannoma neurofibrosarcoma,” Dr Rowland says simply, glancing down at the papers on her desk.

Patrick blinks. “What— A…?”

“A malignant tumour,” she clarifies.

Patrick is quite sure there’s been a mistake made here, a grave error, some kind of hilariously dumb miscommunication. “A… tumour?” he repeats. The doctor nods, that smile that isn’t a smile back again for two seconds before disappearing again. “That’s… no, I can’t be, no, that’s… No.” He’s not sure what he means to say except _no_. _No._ He’s waiting for her to tell him it’s a mistake, not what it sounds like it is.

Dr Rowland hesitates, then says in a softer voice, “I realise something like this can be quite difficult to process.” She frowns. “Please understand, we have specialists here to help in any way we can. I believe our first step should be chemotherapy. While your cancer is both rare and rather aggressive, I think with suitable treatment…”

Patrick tries, but he can’t hear anymore of her explanation, not over his own breathing and the sudden ringing in his ears.

There have been several moments in Patrick's life where panic overtook all thought beyond the all-consuming flare of fear burning bright in his gut.

The first time he was seven years old and he and his mom were shopping for new school shoes at the mall. Patrick was bored and easily distracted by the new Super Nintendo console in a shop window. He was looking at it for a few seconds, he swears it wasn’t any longer than that, but when he looked away his mom was gone, and he was alone in a crowd of swarming Saturday afternoon shoppers. The guizer of panic that bubbled in his chest made his eyes water and his voice shake as he he stood by the GameStop and called out desperately for his mommy.

The second time was only a few years ago, in a messy, smelly van on a winter morning. Patrick was staring out of the window, listening to Joe and Andy talking quietly and Pete’s sleepy breaths in the seat next to him while the stereo played one of Andy’s favourite heavy metal bands. There was a shift, sudden and jolting, as the van’s glacial pace abruptly accelerated sideways. A moment, no more than a few seconds, of terror filled Patrick as he registered the fact that they were no longer on the road, the fact that the drone of conversation had increased to shouts, and the movement beside him as Pete was jolted awake. It was a few seconds that felt far longer, wherein Patrick convinced himself he was about to die.

The most recent time was only a couple of months ago. A call from their manager in the late afternoon telling him that Pete had overdosed on something, that Pete was on his way to the hospital, that Pete had hurt himself and no one knew how bad it was. The panic then didn’t last the minutes it did in the mall before his mother found him crying where she’d left him, fully believing he’d been right beside her the whole time. It didn’t last the few seconds it did in the van before everything shuddered to a stop and all of them revelled in the fact that they were, in fact, still alive and unhurt.

The overwhelming anxiety had followed him for months this time, diminishing slowly but still not gone entirely, over two months later.  

Now though, now Patrick’s not sure the panic can ever stop. It spreads like the poison in his back, as Patrick stares without seeing at a poster behind the doctor explaining how to spot the signs of a stroke, a chill spreading through him and the word “cancer” ringing in his head where conscious thought should be.

Dr Rowland is still talking, but he doesn’t know what she’s saying anymore, and it’s not because of any complicated language she’s using. He just can’t hear anything except the stutter of his own heartbeat: loud, fast, fragile.  


	2. when the world is crashing down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick has been falling, falling, falling down a dark hole since he left the doctor’s office six hours ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone for the comments and kudos last chapter! i really appreciate it. 
> 
> (( side note: i realise i said last chapter that 50/50, the movie this is based on, is available on netflix. it actually got taken down like, around the time i uploaded that chapter lol, which is poor timing. (in the uk, anyway. it might still be available elsewhere) ))
> 
> anyway, on with the angst.

“Wow.” Hannah takes a shaking breath, hand to her mouth. “Wow. Okay.”

Patrick has been falling, falling, falling down a dark hole since he left the doctor’s office six hours ago. That creeping, swooping sensation as you miss a step on the stairs a permanent presence in his gut. He’s waiting for the crunch as the ground hits him hard and he stops falling, starts bleeding. He thought the bottom of the hole might come as he repeated to Hannah what the doctor told him; they’re sat together on the sofa, the news playing on low volume in the background, and the word “cancer” came out like ash on his tongue. He wants to meet the ground. So far, he’s still freefalling.

“I know… this is a lot.” His voice is quiet, a little unsteady. “And we’re… I mean, you only just moved in. It’s okay… It’s okay if you want to bail,” he says carefully.

“Bail?” Hannah stares at him. “You think I’m going to run away?”

“No, I mean— I don’t want you to… I just mean,” Patrick swallows something heavy down, throat aching with it, “This is big. I know it is. And we’re not married, it’s not like—” He clamps his mouth shut; this is all coming out wrong, he knows it is.   

“I’m not going to _abandon_ you, Patrick. God.” She grabs his shoulders tight, pulling him close. “Don’t ever think that,” she says, and Patrick is immediately swept with guilt. It’s hard not to doubt this sort of thing, especially since lately things between him and Hannah have been kind of weird. He can’t say he’d be remotely surprised if she decided not to take this on – and who is he to judge anyone for that? Who should have to deal with this besides Patrick himself?

“Sorry,” he mutters, closing his eyes against her curled red hair, smelling the raspberry shampoo she uses and feeling like crap. “I just… I know it’ll be hard.”

Hannah pulls back, patting his knee gently. “Maybe it will, but I’ll manage. And you…” She sighs, ruby red lips smiling in a tense, reassuring sort of way. “You’ll be fine.” Rubbing his arm gently, she nods. “Chemo, right? It’ll be okay. I’m going to take care of you.”

Underneath the undying panic there’s a degree of relief; this means he won’t be alone, don’t let him be alone now. He nods, and even as he feels himself drop down further and further, down, with no hope of stopping, he feels almost marginally parachuted now.

“What did your parents say?” Hannah asks. Her voice reminds him of a similar sort of tone, high and gentle, to the one she uses with the dog next door when they see it out in the yard sometimes. He wishes it didn’t. “And your band?”

“I… Nothing,” Patrick mutters. “I haven’t told anyone yet, except you.”

He has to tell Pete. Somewhere in his brain, that’s a red flagged thought, soaked in urgency. He told him he’d text after the appointment, to say how it went. He’s heard his phone go off at least three times since he got home, but he has yet to check it. He knows it’s Pete, demanding answers Patrick refuses to give through a fucking text message while Pete reads it on his Sidekick, sitting in his bedroom alone.    

Hannah nods. “Okay. Yeah, I mean, you don’t have to tell anyone else tonight. It’s getting late. We can just go to bed, if you want. Call your parents tomorrow.”

He would rather tell his parents in person – his mom, at least. She only lives a few miles away, and he and Hannah are already supposed to have dinner with her on Sunday night anyway. Hannah has probably forgotten. He can tell his mom then, it’ll give him time to think about how he’s going to do it. His dad lives in Colorado now; Patrick may have to actually tell him this over the phone. His stomach twists unpleasantly.

Going to bed right now sounds like half of a good idea. Patrick is exhausted, but he’s also absolutely positive he won’t be able to sleep. And what’s more, he knows Pete won’t be able to sleep until he gets some sort of answer from Patrick.

“Actually…” Patrick rubs a hand across his eyes, shaking his head, “I think I’m gonna… go for a drive. I… I’ve gotta clear my head a little.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s okay. You take your time.” She kisses him gently on the cheek before she heads for the stairs. “Don’t be too long.”

It’s only after he’s climbed into the car that he finally takes his phone out of his pocket and looks over the text messages Pete has sent him.

      **Pete (16:35)**  
     you done at the docs yet??

      **Pete (17:11)**  
     k I know your done by now.

      **Pete (18:08)**  
     were you kidnapped?

      **Pete (18:16)**  
     have aliens abducted you type 1 for yes 2 for no

The last text was sent four hours ago. Patrick wonders if there’s any chance that Pete could’ve actually fallen asleep in that time.

      **Patrick (22:19)**  
     1

      **Pete (22:20)**  
     oh shit what type we talking? alien or et?

Of course not.

Patrick massages his back gently with two fingers before stopping, jerking forward. He moves his hand back to his phone and his thumbs slip and hover over the keypad, one word tested through black letters on a small screen:

_Alien._

He deletes the message before his traitorous thumbs can click send. Throwing his phone onto the passenger side, he starts up his car.

**

He doesn’t move for a few minutes after getting to Pete’s parent’s house, half tempted to turn back, go home and lie in bed next to Hannah for several hours without sleeping. Barrelling in and ruining his best friend’s day is the opposite of what he wants.  

When he finally does make it to the door Pete’s mom is the one who answers, and her eyes widen a little when she sees who it is. “Hi, Patrick,” she says, her surprise evident in her voice. “This is a late visit. Everything okay?”

“Um—” When somebody asks how you are, you’re supposed to say you’re fine, even if you’re not. It’s the general unwritten rule of greetings and pleasantries and small talk. Patrick’s never disliked this rule, it’s no one else’s business and he’d rather just say he’s fine, all good; he’s not going to start doing otherwise now. Even though everything has almost never been less okay, Patrick shapes his face into something resembling a smile and says simply, “Yeah, fine. Is Pete in? I just wanted to talk to him about a… a band thing. I’m sorry. I know it’s late.”

“Of course,” Dale steps aside, letting Patrick inside. “He’s in his bedroom, not sleeping.”

He can tell she’s right as soon as he reaches the top of the stairs; Pete is not sleeping, not with the dull blare of Rancid coming from behind the closed door of his bedroom.

Patrick doesn’t knock before letting himself in; he never has before – sharing an apartment, a van, for several years means losing a lot of privacy – and he sees no reason to start now. Pete is on his bed, staring down at his Sidekick, an open notebook in front of him on the sheets, Tim Armstrong’s voice coming loudly from the stereo by his desk. He doesn’t seem to notice Patrick at first, it’s only as he walks further into the room, clearing his throat, that Pete looks up, surprise colouring his features.

The surprise turns to a frown. “Kinda thought you were ignoring me.”

“I’m not ignoring you,” Patrick says. “Been sort of… busy tonight, I guess.” That’s not true at all. Patrick got home half an hour after the doctor told him he has cancer. It was four and half hours before Hannah got home from the art gallery. Patrick spent one of those four hours sitting on the sofa, freefalling, listening to beat of his own head. Some of it he spent googling information on the long-named cancer growing in his back. Then he went to the little office he uses as a makeshift studio and tried to write the song that wouldn’t leave him alone. He was still struggling with it when Hannah got home hours later.

Pete’s frown deepens as he turns his music right down and glances at the alarm clock on his bedside table. “It’s pretty late. What’re you doing here?”

“Um.” Patrick swallows, biting his lip. “I have to talk to you about something.”

“Is this about the party on Saturday? Because I swear I _thought_ I told you, and even if I didn’t I totally told Andy to tell you, so actually—”

“No, it’s— Pete, it’s not about that.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, shoot.” Pete sits back against the headboard of his bed, though Patrick notices that he doesn’t look especially relieved that he isn’t about to be in the middle of the same argument about how unorganised he can sometimes be with the business side of the band. Patrick has a feeling Pete suspects what this is about, if not the details. “What’s, um. What’s up?”

“Okay.” Patrick hesitates, wonders if he should go and sit down with him. Then decides he can’t sit still right now and paces a little instead, lifting his hat from his head briefly to scratch his head.

Pete sits on the bed and waits. “Patrick?” he says sharply after a solid ten seconds where all Patrick does is fidget.

Patrick clears his throat and makes himself look at Pete. “Um. You know – well, you know I went to the doctor’s this afternoon?” he says, putting his hands together and unable to stop pulling and rubbing them against each other like he’s washing them under an invisible faucet.

“Yeah, you said you’d text and then _didn’t_ ,” says Pete with a frown. He glances at Patrick’s hands before meeting his eyes. “What’d they say? Is it… It’s not a badly pulled muscle?” 

“Well, it’s – I mean, you know, my back’s been hurting and it’s because... It’s…” He trails off for a long moment, biting his lip while Pete just watches with a confused and very concerned frown. It’s harder than it seems, just to say it. To say the words that have rattled in his brain for the last six hours. It was different with Hannah, he’s not sure why exactly, except that this is Pete. This is… it’s _Pete_. He takes a breath. “It’s cancer. I have cancer,” he says, quiet but steady, not stumbling over words, not choking on his tongue like he feels he should be.

Pete blinks at him, uncomprehending, brow quirking in something that’s not quite confusion. Patrick realises he’s waiting, waiting for the laugh that follows, for the “Gotcha!”, for the April Fools that’s several weeks too late and not at all characteristic of Patrick.

Patrick can’t give that to him, can only ramble at his dumbstruck expression, “It’s, um, it’s in my back – spinal cancer – and it’s got this long, weird name, I don’t remember exactly. Starts with, uh, schwi… Schwam… something? Like, it’s weird and – um, rare. But they’re – I mean, the doctor said I have a – a good chance, you know, if I start chemo—”       

Pete interrupts with a cry in the shape of Patrick’s name around his lips; it’s welcome, frankly. Patrick’s not sure anything but Pete could shut him the fuck up right then. Pete leaps off the bed and backs away from Patrick, then takes several steps toward him. His face has collapsed into something horrified, something panicked, and Patrick is reminded of squeaking tires on ice and hoarse shouting in a cramped, out of control van. “You have…”

“Cancer,” whispers Patrick. “But it’s – I mean, I’m gonna have the chemo, I start it on Monday,” he adds quickly, trying to calm a Pete who’s started pacing the room worse than Patrick, running a hand through his lank hair, black tinted red. “So, that’s— that’s good. It’s – the doctor was, was optimistic.” That’s a lie. The doctor was not optimistic, though nor was she especially pessimistic either. To be honest, Patrick isn’t entirely sure he wasn’t talking to an android. “It’ll be okay,” he parrots the words Hannah assured him of earlier, still not feeling them settle, not feeling them ring with any sort of truth. “It’ll be okay, Pete.”

“Okay?” Pete repeats. “Jesus fuck, I’m gonna throw up.” Then he does just that, right into the waste paper basket next to his desk, retching horribly as Patrick jolts forward with a hand on his shoulder, moving to rub gently at his back.

He tries not to think about how he’ll be the one in Pete’s position soon. He doesn’t like to think about all the side effects of chemotherapy he read about earlier, but his brain keeps reminding him of them anyway. That’ll be fine though. Fine. Better constantly sick than dead, right? Something else his brain keeps reminding him of.

Pete doesn’t wipe his mouth before turning to slump his head onto Patrick’s shoulder, something Patrick might be more grossed out about in any other situation. He pulls Patrick close, wrapping his arms lightly around him as though afraid he’ll break. Patrick realises, as Pete’s arms hover and barely touch his back, instead clinging against his shoulders, that that is precisely what Pete is now afraid of.

“Don’t die,” he whispers against the crook of Patrick’s neck.

Patrick feels his heart stutter, stop, and drop like lead into his gut. He has no idea how to reply to that. “Okay,” is what he finally forces himself to say. “Okay, Pete. It’s okay.”

Pete pulls away, eyes rimmed red and damp. He backs up to the bed and sits, breaths quick. Patrick hesitates, then sits beside him. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to make any of this better.

“What…” Pete takes a heavy, uneven breath, as though trying to calm himself. Patrick glances down and sees his hands shake. He’s desperate to hold them steady, so that’s what he does, reaching over to Pete’s lap and holding both of them still with one hand. Pete watches, seeming to swallow something down. “You said… chemo? They’re gonna do chemo on you and… you’ll get better, right?”

Patrick gives half a shrug, helpless. “Um, well— The chemo is hopefully gonna shrink it – the tumour, I mean. Then they’ll like, operate to remove it.” 

Pete nods, then opens his mouth, seeming to want to add something. He doesn’t, just clamps his mouth shut and stares straight ahead at the door opposite them both. They sit like that for a while. Patrick is still clinging onto Pete’s hands with his; part of him thinks he should let go, but a bigger part of him doesn’t want to. He needs the contact, he knows Pete needs the contact, that’s the only explanation he can think of. 

Pete clears his throat and says, in a voice that doesn’t quite sound like his own, “People survive cancer all the time, you know.”

Patrick considers that for a moment. He nods, because yeah. Yeah. They do.

“Especially young people. Famous people.”

Patrick makes a noise that he hopes might be a laugh. “We’re not that famous, Pete. Not yet.”

“We are,” Pete insists. “We’re fucking rocking out man. Rocking the world. Rock stars… survive.” But even as he says that he sounds unsure and Patrick can’t say he can blame him. Rock stars seem to die all the fucking time, as far as Patrick can see it.  

Then again, it probably doesn’t matter; no matter what Pete tells him, Patrick has never seen himself as a rock star.

There’s more silence. Patrick wonders what Pete’s thinking about, if he’s thinking about what might happen, if he’s thinking about the next few months. The chemo is a four-month course. Patrick will be done in August, just in time for Warped Tour to be pretty much over.

Pete lets his head rest against Patrick’s shoulder and murmurs reassurances repeatedly between long pauses. He’s so quiet Patrick barely hears him, but he catches things like, “You’ll be okay…” and, “It’ll work out.” He’s not sure if they’re words meant for himself or for Patrick.

Patrick finally lets go of Pete’s hands, reaching for his phone and letting himself do what he’d been thinking about for several minutes. He speaks softly to Pete when he’s done, “I texted Andy and Joe. We’re meeting them in the studio tomorrow morning. I can, um. I’ll text you when, I’ll pick you up.”

“The studio?” Pete repeats. “I thought we were done there. Earlier, you said—”

“I know. I have to tell them, Pete,” Patrick mutters.

“In the studio?”

“Yes.”

He can’t really explain why he has to meet them in the studio, except that when they haven’t been touring together, they’ve been in the studio together. Since late last year. It was the studio where Patrick and Andy debated the odds of the upcoming Star Wars movie being better than the last two; where Joe got high on the couch, discussing bands intently with Patrick and their producer; where Pete pointed a camera in everyone’s face with the sole purpose of annoying them (especially Patrick). The last few months particularly, it’s almost been more home than his actual home. They don’t have their apartment anymore and Joe is selling the van now they’ve got busses for the next tour. He should tell them in the studio.

“Okay,” Pete murmurs, watching Patrick through a frown. Patrick nods. He’s trying not to think. This time twelve hours ago he and Pete were on their way to the studio, talking about Patrick’s sex life (or lack thereof). It feels a million lives away now. “You should sleep.” Patrick meets Pete’s eyes. Pete continues, “You look fucking exhausted.”

“So do you,” Patrick says, and Pete just smiles in a way that doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes. Pete always looks tired. “I should go.” He gets to his feet, already hating the thought of driving home and lying in bed wide awake for too many hours.

“You could stay,” Pete says as Patrick scratches tiredly at his eyes. “I don’t mind. In fact, I’d—” He stops mid-sentence, seeming to swallow something down. “You could stay. You look really tired.”

It’s tempting. He could just crawl right into bed here; he and Pete have shared plenty of beds before. Patrick has even shared this particular bed with Pete, when he moved back in with his parents a few months back. Pete wanted company, so Patrick gave him company – gave him days of company. And if he stays there’ll be no driving home alone. Plus – and he hates that thought comes to him, but – he can’t help but think he might even sleep better here, near Pete. He’s not even sure why. He knows it shouldn’t be like that.

 He can’t let it be like that.

“Hannah would wonder where I was. You know?” He shrugs. “Thanks, though.”

As he leaves, Patrick pretends like he can’t see the flicker of disappointment in Pete’s red rimmed eyes; the fear that he spots there is harder to ignore.

**

“Fuck.”

Joe has said that about five times in the last three minutes. Patrick’s not sure he’s capable of saying anything else. Andy has gone entirely silent, which isn’t always strange, but he is normally a lot more willing to fill the room with his voice, a lot more talkative, when it’s just the four of them.

Pete is also silent, sitting in one of the plastic chairs next to Patrick and staring determinedly at the floor. He somehow looks like he got even less sleep than Patrick – which is saying something, Patrick’s pretty sure he got about two hours of disturbed sleep, tops, last night.

“Yeah,” says Patrick. He’s explained everything he can, told them pretty much everything he knows – everything the doctor told him, anyway. He’s not sure what else to say, really. There’s nothing. _Fuck_ just about covers it, he supposes.

“What— What’s your—” Joe swallows, he seems to be having just as much trouble finding the right words. “Did they say what— what like, your odds are—” He clears his throat, frowns at Patrick. “How _bad_ is it, really?”

Patrick has already told them it’s a pretty rare form of cancer, but he thinks he gets what Joe wants to know. It was one of the first things he saw when he looked it up. “I looked online. It— It said my chances are like, 50%?” He means the survival rate. His chances of living through this.

Joe is staring at him, wide eyed. “What… What the fuck kind of odds are they?”

“Joe,” Andy warns, his voice low and croaking, like it’s threatening to break in half.

“What? I’m just – 50% chance? Like his life is balanced on a fucking coin toss! What the fuck?”

There’s a scrape of metal on linoleum as Pete’s chair is abruptly thrust backward and he’s bolting for the door before anyone has any reply to that.

“I’ll go,” says Andy before Patrick can make the move to rush on after him. Andy follows Pete out of the room, and Patrick watches before turning to face Joe, who’s still just staring at Patrick, pale faced.

Patrick still doesn’t know what to say; he shrugs helplessly. Joe stands up, goes over to where Patrick is leaning back awkwardly against the recording equipment. He pulls Patrick into a one-armed hug, threading his arm around his neck and pressing his head to Patrick’s shoulder. “Sorry…” he mutters after a moment. Patrick nods, though Joe can’t see him. “They’re not… bad odds,” he says. “If you look at it another way.”

Patrick snorts. “Aren’t they?” he asks quietly.

Joe pulls back, giving a short nod. “You’ve got good luck, dude,” he says. “You make fucking luck – I mean, look at us. Look how far we’ve come, right?”

Patrick sees distantly what he means; this – their band, records, growing fame – was them in the right place at the right time, this was a lot of luck. He nods, quiet as Joe squeezes his arm and takes a steadying breath.

Luck. He’ll be honest to himself, if not to Joe – it feels like that ran out a while ago.

**

Patrick’s not really sure how he manages to get through the show that weekend, but he does. He does and for thirty glorious minutes it’s actually incredible.

Before it starts his back feels like someone is continuously punching it, like it should be blacked and bruised, though he knows it looks as pale and unmarred on the outside as it always has done. The guitar pulling heavy around his neck doesn’t really seem to help.

Pete actually suggests – out loud and in the vicinity of Joe, Andy and some of the other guys – that they cancel the show. “If you’re not… if you’re not feeling it—If your back hurts too much or whatever, then we don’t have to do this,” he says. “We can make an excuse. Most the kids here aren’t even here for us.”

That, at least, may be partly true. There are several acts playing tonight and Fall Out Boy certainly aren’t one of the more popular ones – they’re out of left field, he’s not sure how Pete got them this gig in the first place. But there are still some kids here for them – Patrick has seen them, he’s waved to them.

And anyway, they can’t just quit because of a bit of back pain. He tries not to think about it, but it is hard not to focus on the fact that this could well be the last time Patrick plays to a crowd. He’s been thinking those thoughts where he shouldn’t a lot – a pinprick of bitter animalistic fear at the centre of his brain, the centre of his chest. Everything he does: _this could be the last time._

Anger comes with it, fresh and frustrating. It’s come thick and fast a lot over the last few days, truth be told. He’s snapped at the guys, at Hannah, at Bob— their manager who isn’t even aware of what’s wrong yet. He’s a rubber band being pulled back, the smallest thing enough to make him snap and collide with whoever is closest.

Like Pete.

“Shut up,” Patrick barks at him, the soft hurt in Pete’s eyes like daggers through Patrick’s chest. “Stop looking at me like I’m gonna break in half so we can kill this fucking show already. I’m _fine_.” He sticks out his hand for their usual group high five and Pete looks determinedly away from Patrick several seconds later as the four of them walk out onto the stage together. Pete talks, Patrick sings, they play, the crowd cheers and screams.

And for the entire set, the whole half an hour they’re on stage, they show off their music to a crowd of mostly screaming people and Patrick forgets. His back becomes a dull jab he barely notices, focusing instead on the heat filling him up as he plays, the adrenalin, the music that bursts through his veins and shatters around them. He forgets his back, his cancer, the hole he’s falling into. For several long minutes, it’s swept away to nothing but his music, Pete’s words, their band.

Eventually, it comes back. It has to, at the end of the show, as he’s walking off stage after Saturday. His back pulses like there’s a heart beating there. And maybe there is. It feels like something malicious is growing inside of him, gnawing his spine.

Alien.

“Patrick!” Voices, loud, gruff, high, too many of them with hands hard on his shoulder blades and drinks shoved at his chest. The band is shuffled into the crowd and Patrick tries at being social.

The hotel party that follows is too crowded though, too loud, too full of people asking all the wrong questions. _When are you guys on tour again? When’s the record out? You looking forward to Warped?_ It’s like all the bad interviews they’ve had over the last year or two, but worse. Because bad interviews are usually just boring, occasionally a little uncomfortable, nothing like this. He gives vague answers through forced laughter.

He’s not sure how long he lasts before he sees it like a beacon, a glowing neon light of freedom amongst the closing crowd. The fire exit sign, with stairs opening up onto the roof. He heads for it, dodging greetings and questions about the record and uproarious back pats. The world is quieter as he makes his way outside, mostly unseen but for a familiar few faces he shrugs off with a muffled, “getting some air.”

There are a few others who have escaped to the same roof. A couple kiss lazily against the wall close to the door. A group of girls laugh and chat and smoke near the fire escape ladder. Patrick walks out to the edge of the building. The giant drop is prevented by steel bars that surround the edge, but Patrick feels like he’s been plummeting down somewhere similar for all too long, regardless.

He lowers himself so he’s sitting on the floor, swinging his legs through either side of a metal bar and letting them hang above the fall, forehead pushed against the bar for the cool smoothness. It does nothing for the way his body creeps with sweaty heat. It might be the alcohol. He’s had three or four of whatever Joe or Chris or Tom shoved in front of him, barely glancing at the label on the bottle before gulping it back. A part of him wonders if he should be worried about whether or not he should even be drinking right now, considering he has to start chemo in less than forty-eight hours. (Did it say anything about alcohol on that leaflet Dr Rowland gave him? He doesn’t remember.) Another part of him just doesn’t care.

The Chicago skyline stretches out in front of him; above, a scattered array of stars shine dully. Not many; too much light, too much pollution. Patrick stares at them and thinks. He can’t seem to stop thinking. He can’t stop his brain reminding him of _maybes_ that could ring true.

Maybe this is the last time he’ll ever see Chicago like this. Maybe this is the last time he’ll take a breather from a party. Maybe this is the last time he’ll swing his heels back against a brick wall on a hotel roof. Maybe that was the last time he’ll sing in front of people like that again.

Maybe…

“There you are,” says a familiar voice behind him, and Patrick feels Pete lower himself down and sit beside him with a sigh, shoes knocking against Patrick’s above the drop that stretches below them. “Kinda sucky party, right?”

“It’s all right,” Patrick murmurs to the pole he’s still leaning against. He turns his head and watches Pete take a swig from his beer bottle. These are the kind of parties Pete likes. He’d usually be the life of it all, bouncing between friends and attractive people, flirting and drinking and laughing; sometimes he’d end up in a hotel room with someone between bedsheets. The fact that Pete is here instead, sympathetic and trying to douse flames in Patrick’s brain, is just another reason to feel guilty for it all.     

“Hannah still couldn’t make it?” Pete asks, voice light.

“I told you. She’s working.”

“Yeah, but… that was before,” says Pete. Before. Before Patrick’s life caught fire. What was that like?

“So?” Patrick shrugs. “She still has to work.”

Pete nods. “I guess,” he says, but he doesn’t sound very happy with that answer. “Just seems like… I don’t know, someone who loves you… should be with you, all the time.”

Patrick sighs, wishing he had another drink in his hand. The world is coated with a thick layer of film, but a sharpness is beginning to rip through with Pete’s words.

Pete is still talking. “Not that there _isn’t_ , I mean there is,” Patrick frowns; Pete’s not making much sense, “I— I just mean… You know, she’s your girlfriend.”

Patrick thinks about not saying anything – he’s not here to justify the decisions of his girlfriend to his best friend – but he’s felt like that tightened rubber band ready to lash out for hours now, and Pete isn’t helping. “She’s being normal, Pete,” he says sharply. “She’s acting… normal. And right now? I like it. It’s better. Better than tiptoeing around me like I’m a cracked fucking eggshell.”

He’s not even sure Hannah acting _normal_ is entirely accurate, to be honest. Hannah has been a little distant since he told her about the cancer, but she’s been distant for months. Is she just acting “normal” as it has been, in the wake of this bombshell he threw at her? Or is she slipping away from him even further?

“I’m not tiptoeing around you,” Pete objects, and Patrick snorts, looks up at him with a quirked eyebrow, because seriously. _Seriously_. “I’m not, I’m—” He sighs, looking miserably down at his beer. “I’m just, I’m trying to, like… be there for you. To make sure you’re okay.”

Patrick stares at him. He wonders, not for the first time, what he and Andy talked about back in the studio when Pete ran off. They’d come back twenty minutes later. Pete had a tight smile and red rimmed eyes that couldn’t stop boring into Patrick, fear colouring them along with something else, an emotion Patrick can never identify.

“Well, I don’t need that,” Patrick insists, not sure it’s wholly true. “I’m tired of you touching me like I’m gonna break, I’m tired of Joe asking how I am every half an hour, I’m tired of the looks Andy keeps giving me that he thinks are subtle but fucking aren’t. I’m tired of being told it’s gonna be okay, just being told that, like people know when they _don’t_ – they don’t _know_. _How_ is it gonna be okay? How— When I’m just—” He clamps his mouth shut, swallowing it back. It’s only going to get worse, he knows that. He’s only told four people so far, and already everything is – it’s shit. “It’s _shit_ ,” he tells Pete.

“I…” Pete trails off. Patrick stares determinedly away, over at the Chicago skyline, watching the lights shimmer with distant promise from a city he loves. He feels Pete’s eyes on him, he feels him watching and trying to place what he should say. “I’m sorry,” Pete mutters. There’s a pause, then he says, quiet and fond, “You know, you’ve always kind of been a bitch when you’re sick.”

Patrick’s head whips round, something stilling him. Then he smiles, small and quiet. He nods. “When have you ever been better?” 

“Never,” Pete admits, snorting. “But you’re still worse. Remember when you threw your guts out at that show in Iowa last year? You kicked Joe – or no, Chris? – in the fucking shin.” He grins fondly at the memory. “I laughed so fucking hard.”

“Yeah, but he – Chris, it was Chris – he was being an _ass_ about it,” Patrick insists, mouth quirking upward. There’s a quiet that stretches between them. Patrick’s smile fades somewhat. “It was different,” he says.

“I know,” Pete mutters. “I wasn’t… worried then. It was just food poisoning, you know. But I still told you not to go to that party with us like you wanted to, remember?”

“Yeah.” He remembers. Pete still looked after him. “I might be worse this time.” Patrick admits it into a soft pause, breathing slowly. “I’ll be a bigger bitch, maybe.”

“That’s okay,” Pete says quietly. “I will be too. I’ll try not to though. Swear I will.”

Patrick nods. Some cold and prickling feeling claws at him as he sits with Pete and watches the sky above. Leaning his head back, he still feels like he’s falling. He had thought telling Pete to stop treating him like a clueless toddler might help, and it did a little, but not enough at all.

He turns his gaze away from the sky. “Can I tell you something?”

Pete’s answer is immediate: “Anything.”

Patrick hesitates, staring down at his jeans, too tight and damp with sweat. “I… I’m scared, Pete,” he admits softly, voice barely above a whisper. There’s a sickly sense of shame that falls over him as soon as he says the words out loud. Like he’s giving into it. Then comes an urge to try and take the words back; his teeth bite down on his bottom lip until he tastes copper.

Pete is quiet for several long seconds, and Patrick begins to wonder if he even heard him. It’s only as he feels Pete thread their hands together and squeeze gently that he suspects otherwise. Then Pete leans close, catching Patrick’s eye and refusing to let go. “You wanna know what’s gonna happen?” he finally asks, face so close Patrick can see the different spiralling shades of brown of his eyes. “You’re gonna go to the hospital on Monday and do the chemo, and it’ll suck, but— you’ll do it. You’ll do it and keep doing it and you’ll fucking beat that cancer to the fucking ground. And once it’s _dead_ and _gone_ we’re gonna go on tour, and we’re gonna make more awesome records, and you’ll make the whole world melt with your voice. Then in like a million years, when we’re ninety and making music in a fucking old folks home, we’re gonna look back at this moment, this exact moment,” he grins a grin that speaks of promise, eyes glinting gold, “and we’ll laugh, man. We’ll laugh. ‘Cause you’ve got so much left, Patrick. So much.” 

Patrick can’t say anything to that, he can only squeeze Pete’s hand back tight and blink at stinging eyes, laughing a little around lips bitten raw, as he feels it. It’s crushing and sudden, the thump as he finally hits the bottom of that dark tunnelled hole, at least for now. He doesn’t bleed, he sinks into Pete’s words and lets them take hold.

He knows that Pete’s only trying to make him feel better. He knows Pete can’t know any of that, can’t possibly know if Patrick will still be here a year from now, let alone seventy years from now. He can’t know if Patrick will ever stand on a stage and sing to a crowd again.

But despite knowing it’s made up, Patrick can’t help but look into the soft whiskey eyes that beg for something more than fear and premature grief, the desperate smile full of helpless hope. He can’t help but hear Pete tell him it’s all going to be okay, and just for now, just for tonight, around a smile against Pete’s chest – he closes his eyes and believes him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i was pretty unsure about this chapter so i'd love to hear what you think.
> 
> and if you'd like to chat, i'm on tumblr @1833outboy (you could also reblog this chapter [here](http://1833outboy.tumblr.com/post/182089057751/said-ill-be-fine-1833outboy-phancon-fall) if you'd like!)


	3. the only place that feels like home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick finds solace in music.

Telling his mom is both surprisingly easy and torturously difficult at the same time, in a strange sort of way.

It is easy in only one way, and that’s that she knows so much about him, she almost already seems aware that something is wrong before it’s even brought up. It’s difficult in every other way.

She already has a crease between her eyebrows and dark blue eyes on him as she asks carefully over dinner, “How did the hospital appointment go?”

Patrick shifts, seeing Hannah glance at him in the corner of his eye. “Um. It—” He hesitates, and she catches that because she catches everything.

“Rick?” Her fork full of chicken korma stops half way to her mouth, and he knows she can instantly tell something is very wrong.

Patrick glimpses Hannah, who frowns and shrugs. He was hoping this could wait until after they’d eaten, but. Well. Maybe he should just rip off the band aid.

“Um, the doctor…” He clears his throat; his mom watches him, so still it’s like she already knows. “She said— I have a tumour, in my back. That’s… why it’s been hurting and stuff. It’s, uh. It’s cancer.”

His mom puts down her fork, still staring. “Cancer,” she whispers. “Oh my… Oh my God.”

“It’s… It’ll be okay.” Patrick still has no idea how this could be true, but he’s been quoting it to everybody around him like a well-trained parrot that only knows one phrase. “I’ve got… chemo – I start it tomorrow, and— and…”

And. And that’s all the comfort he has right now.

“Your appointment,” she says, head shaking. "When did you find out about this?"

“I just… a couple days ago.” Four days, actually. He won’t mention that part.  

“And you’re just now telling me?” she asks, sharp as a knife, and he feels a lump forming in his throat because he can see it. Why she’s desperate to turn it into an argument. That’s easier to handle.

He shrugs helplessly. His mom stares ahead at a spot beyond Patrick’s shoulder for a long moment. Then she abruptly gets to her feet and marches her way to the kitchen.

“Mom?”

“I have something,” she calls. Patrick follows her, leaving Hannah staring after him at the table. “Have you told your dad yet?” She’s rummaging through cupboards, shifting packets of cookies and snacks.

Patrick shakes his head. “I want to tell him in person, but… I don’t know, I think he’s been busy lately, you know?”

His mom stops, looks at him. She smiles, or tries to, eyes soft and afraid. “You should call him now. Don’t wait. I— I’m going to pack some green tea, for you to take with you.” She turns back to the cupboard.

Patrick stares at her, confused. “Green tea?”

“I read about it once – I don’t remember where – it said that green tea can help reduce the risk of cancer by fifteen percent.” She sounds distant, her voice is shaking.

“Mom, I…” Patrick shakes his head. “I  _have_  cancer, that’s not—”

“Patrick,” her gaze is back on him, her tone admonishing, the same one he remembers from nights playing his music too loud and coming back home past his curfew and forgetting to clean up his room when asked. Her gaze is firm, but desperate. “Please. Let me.” She touches his wrist gently.

After a pause, Patrick nods. “Okay.” He watches her move coffee and sugar aside before she brings out the box of green tea from the back.

He pats the phone in his pocket and gestures to the hallway. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna go call dad.” His mom is holding the tea very tight as she nods, and Patrick goes out into the hallway, leaning against the wall by the stairs as he clicks through his phone.

His dad picks up on the third ring.

“Rick, hey. How’s it going?” He sounds pleasantly surprised to hear from his son at all, which isn’t really a shock to Patrick; he and Patrick have been fairly bad at keeping in touch since he moved several states away. Patrick hasn’t helped anything; he’s been away for so long, so many years on and off tour. He has a moment of intense guilt that he tries to push away. “You boys still on tour? Where was it now— California?”

They were in California about a month ago, which means that it was around a little over a month ago that Patrick last spoke to his dad about the tour and his new songs and his dad’s new job teaching kids’ guitar and…

You know, things that mattered then.

California might have been the last thing they talked about. 

“Um, no,” says Patrick, resting his head back against the wall. He can hear Hannah and his mom talking softly in the kitchen. He wonders if they’re talking about him. He swallows and continues, “We got back home a couple weeks ago. To give some finishing touches to the new album and stuff.”

“Oh, good. I can’t wait to hear it,” his dad says. He sounds distracted though now, muttering something Patrick can’t really make out to somebody else away from the phone.

“Yeah,” says Patrick hoarsely. “Um, I— I was wondering… I mean, I was thinking maybe. Maybe we could— you could come up here? Maybe this week? I have something I really wanna…” He exhales, swallows down something sharp and painful that intrudes his throat. “I wanna talk to you about something. It’s kind of important.”

“Oh,” Patrick’s dad is full of surprise again, though it’s not necessarily a pleasant sort of surprise this time. “I’m, uh. I’m not sure, Patrick. I’ve been really busy lately. You know, you say you want to be a teacher and everyone tells you what a great job you’ll do, but no one ever says how much hard work it involves.” He laughs a little, as awkward as Patrick remembers. “You wouldn’t believe… the amount of marking and planning. Almost wish I was back on stages. Especially hearing about how well you’re doing.”

His dad goes on; he’s good at talking about things with little input from others. Patrick waits and listens and murmurs in some agreement in the right places. He really doesn’t want to say what he has to say over the God damn phone, but that’s what he may have to do if he can’t get his dad here.

“Are you sure you can’t… move things around?” Patrick asks desperately. “I’d really like to see you. Like, really soon.”

“I’m sorry, Rick. You know I would if I could,” his dad says through a sigh. “You think maybe you can come here for a few nights? Or a week? You doing any shows down here any time soon?”

Patrick rubs a hand over his eyes. Unless he’s willing to fly back to Chicago multiple times for his hospital appointments, he doesn’t think that’s much of an option. “Dad—”

“Or maybe I can make it at the end of the month?” his dad interrupts. “Just a a few days or so after your birthday? I think…”

“Dad, please, can you just— this is important.” Patrick turns around, staring at the patterned, ugly wallpaper of his mom’s hallway and desperate to turn the conversation around, knowing it can only go one way.

“If I move things around, we can maybe meet at that little Chinese place we went to last time. I should be free around the 30th? That good for you?” His dad hums, muttering something else quietly to someone on his side of the receiver again – his wife, Liz, Patrick thinks. He asks Patrick, sounding far away and thoughtful, “What was that place called?”

Patrick presses his forehead against the wall, closing his eyes. “Dad, I have cancer.”

Silence. Then: “What?”

“I have… cancer. Spinal cancer. I start chemo tomorrow.” Patrick thinks he might have become a well-practised expert at delivering bad news over the past four days. He still feels sick with the words.

“Oh.” More surprise, utter shock. Patrick tries to imagine a conversation he’s had lately that didn’t teeter and jump off into a dark, terrifying abys.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “So… I just, I’d like to see you… before the end of the month.” There’s a pause that’s so long Patrick wonders if his dad has left the phone call, mentally if not physically. “Dad?”

“You’ll be alright though,” his dad says finally.

“I— Yeah…” Patrick trails off, then says, trying to sound surer than he feels, “I mean, they’re hopeful the chemo will work. Or at least—it’ll shrink the… the tumour and then they’ll be able to operate.”

“You’ll be okay,” his dad says, firmer than he was before.

Patrick swallows and closes his eyes again. He wants his dad here, he wants to see him, hug him. “Can you come sooner? Please? During the week – or next weekend maybe?”

There’s another quiet pause, then a murmuring – someone off the phone talking to him again, Patrick guesses. “Ricky, I have to go,” his dad says suddenly. “I, um. We— I’ll call you another time, and we can talk about this some more, all right?”

Patrick blinks, eyes stinging. “What?”

“Liz wants me, I…” He clears his throat. “We’ll talk, about me coming over? In a few weeks? We’ll talk soon.”

“Dad—” Patrick starts, but there’s a sudden still silence telling him his dad has already hung up the phone. Patrick stares at the patterns on the wall, phone still close to his ear, a ringing quiet. The wallpaper has waves of circles crossing into a line, over and over and over. Patrick follows them with his eyes for several long seconds before he finally pulls the phone away from his ear.

He looks up, eyes blinking rapidly to try and avoid catastrophe; his mom is staring at him from the doorway. Until she isn’t. Patrick doesn’t even realise he’s given up on blinking back tears until he’s crying in his mom’s arms. She wraps herself around him tightly, whispering nonsense into his ear, telling him it’s all going to be okay. He never realised how much he needed that from her until now; his eyes squeeze shut, head buried in her shoulder. He feels like the boy with the bad scrape on his knee when he fell off his bike in the second grade. He feels like the ten-year-old who came home crying because Luke Chapman pushed him in the dirt at the end of the school day. He feels like the teenager who sulked, devastated, on the couch when Linsey Hooper dumped him after only a month of them dating. He feels like a son going to his mom, desperate for comfort.      

One ugly part of him is yelling in his ear, you’re almost twenty-one and you’re crying on your mom’s shoulder like a six-year-old. But another part of him, a bigger part, just doesn’t care. He doesn’t even care that he can feel Hannah’s gaze on him from the kitchen doorway. He doesn’t care that she’d obviously heard him bawling and come to see what was wrong. He gasps and sobs and listens to his mom’s quivering voice in his ear, and he lets his fears mark wet tear stains against her shoulder. 

**

Patrick can barely keep still on the way down to the hospital on Monday. He’s fidgeting, jiggling his leg repeatedly against the dashboard, tapping his fingers against his hips in a constant rhythm, his inner drummer calming his threaded nerves.

His band are at a meeting with their manager and label execs today wherein Pete will tell them about Patrick’s cancer. Patrick told Pete to, told him he’d rather not have to tell another person as long as he lives if he could help it, when they spoke on the phone last night. Pete told him they wouldn’t discuss anything else, any future plans, without him. Patrick wishes he was there with them, wishes he was heading anywhere but where he’s going now.

“Babe,” Hannah says from the driver’s seat, looking over at his constant tapping with a frown.

He stops, clearing his throat. “Sorry.”

He can’t stop for long though, patting the rhythm like he’s performing his own private drum solo seconds later. He’s sure Hannah must be pleased when she finally pulls into a parking space at the hospital. Patrick is not pleased. Actually, Patrick is beginning to wonder if he’ll throw up before or after they start to pump toxins – drugs, medication, poison, whatever you want to call it – into his bloodstream. He can't remember feeling this nervous, this terrified. Not even the first time he sang to a crowd of strangers comes close.

He’s just gotten out of the car, trying to calm his breathing as his lungs apparently forget how to function correctly, when he notices that Hannah still hasn’t moved. Much to his confusion, she calls out, “I’ll see you later,” from her seat.

Patrick struggles to make sense of that for a moment; he frowns, then sits back down in the car, staring at her. “Are you not...?” He wonders if he’s missed something. “Are you not coming in?” he asks.

“Ah,” Hannah is staring at him like he definitely  _has_  missed something, apologetic but patient. “No, I— I said I’d go into work today, hon.”

“Oh.” Patrick feels something tight seize his stomach, the thought of walking into that building alone gripping him like a vice. “I thought… I mean, I thought you said you would come in with me earlier.”

“I… I meant I’d drive you down, see you off, you know. And I can pick you up later too.” She smiles softly, as though it’s the easiest thing in the world, then turns to him fully and says with the air of someone who’s had the best idea in the world, “Listen, I’ve been thinking. I think maybe it’ll be better if we keep  _that_ ,” she makes a pointed gesture to the hospital, to the chemo, to cancer, to everything red hot and spiked around Patrick’s new life, “and  _us_ ,” she waves her fingers between her chest and Patrick’s, “separate. I think it’ll make everything – for both of us – more… positive. You know what I mean?”

Truthfully, Patrick does not know what she means. When she points to his chest like that she makes it seem like there’s some part of him she can have that is separate from all of the rest of it. That’s terrifying, because he’s positive he can’t give her that anymore. He wishes he could. He wishes he had any part of him not currently focused on the growth in his back.

“Right,” Patrick lies, nodding. “I get it. Sure. Yeah.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, and Hannah’s smile brightens somewhat.

“Great,” she says. “I’ll pick you up, okay? Don’t worry. You text me, and I’ll be here – I’ll make an excuse at work if I have to, I promise. I’ll be waiting.”

Patrick nods, forces a smile. It slips as soon as he’s out of the car. He hears Hannah drive off as he approaches the hospital and feels the lonely terror of it crash against him immediately.

Around twenty minutes later a nurse is injecting an IV into his arm, and Patrick is trying to recall all the chords and lyrics to the entirety of Prince’s  _Parade_  album off the top of his head. It stops his hands from shaking as much, keeps his mind focused. He’s midway through  _Girls & Boys_ when the guy in the seat next to him smiles and holds out a hand for him to shake. He’s probably around ten years older than Patrick, early thirties maybe. There’s a beanie pulled over his head, covering his ears. On the man’s other side a woman without any IV sits in one of the visitor’s plastic chairs; she’s holding the man's hand lightly in her own and reading a Danielle Steele novel.   

The man shakes Patrick’s hand enthusiastically, grinning. “I’m Mitch. Stomach cancer.”

“Patrick,” he tries to smile back, “Um, spinal cancer. Specifically, some… really long name. schwannoma neuro… something… I—I don’t remember it right now.”

“Oh, that sucks,” says Mitch, wincing. “You know, the longer the name is, the worse it is.” There’s a moment wherein Mitch’s piercing green eyes looks so utterly serious, Patrick is not sure if he’s joking or not; then a giant grin cracks his gaunt, pale face and Patrick grins with him, laughing a little. Mitch pats Patrick’s shoulder, friendly, and gestures to the woman on his right. “This is my beautiful wife, Mara.” Mara looks up from her book with a kind smile, giving him a nod. “We were just admiring your singing there,” Mitch goes on.  

“I was singing?” Patrick is mildly horrified. He really needs to get a better grasp of his own surroundings and what he’s doing with himself, he’s been told that before. He once quietly sung half of Elvis Costello’s  _My Aim is True_  while the band was in the van, travelling for hours to another crazed, twenty-minute show that would be paid in pizza. He’d only realised on the sixth song when Pete, apparently unable to keep his giddy laughter inside for any longer, had started singing off-key with him. “Sorry, I didn’t even realise.”

“Don’t apologise,” Mitch laughs. “It’s not a bad voice, from what I could tell…”

“Jeez, Mitch, don’t embarrass the kid,” says Mara through a smile.

“It was Prince, right?” he asks. Patrick nods. “Alright. Tell me honestly – best album? I mean, come on, it’s gotta be  _Dirty Mind_ , am I right?”

The hours pass surprisingly quickly after that, debating Prince albums and the best funk music of the 80s. About twenty minutes in Mitch takes out a lunchbox of homemade cookies and offers Patrick one; he takes it and soon realises it’s full of pot. He can’t find it in him to mind a single bit as the edge is taken off more and more, and he’s reminded of nights in the old apartment he shared with Pete and Joe, getting ridiculously high and laughing at dumb infomercials.

As he talks with Mitch and Mara about music, he learns quickly that Mitch is as passionate as he is, though most of his tastes seem to be stuck very firmly in folk music from the fifties. “I’m a very nostalgic person,” he claims. 

There’s an awkward moment where Mitch asks Patrick what he does and Patrick (idiotically) admits to being in a band. But when he mentions Fall Out Boy (not something he’d do if he wasn’t intoxicated, he’s pretty sure) neither of them have heard of him, which has never pleased Patrick more.

He doesn’t think Mitch would say anything purposely if he did know who Fall Out Boy were, but well. He, Pete, Joe and Andy haven’t discussed what they’re going to tell fans yet, and the last thing he wants is a rumour spreading, however unintentional.

The effects of the chemicals pumping into his bloodstream are a slow build, especially with pot keeping him in a daze of numb contentment, but he does begin to feel a little weak, a little tired, as the hours pass. Mitch and Mara leave before he does, smiling warmly and promising to see him at his next session. He can’t help the odd jab to his gut when he sees the way they hold hands tight and close as they leave the ward.

Patrick sends a text to Hannah when the nurse tells him he only has a few minutes before he can leave. Pete – obviously fresh out of the band meeting – starts texting him a little after.  

 **Pete (19:32)**  
     bob says he hopes your ok. he says sorry too. it was awk but i think he gets it. the island execs talked interviews to us tho. im sorry, i said  
     u had 2b there 4 it. they didnt listen

 **Patrick (19:34)**  
     It’s fine, dw about it. What did they say?

 **Pete (19:35)  
**     its not fine. they should have been talking with u not about u. its all bs. it should be ur decision

 **Patrick (19:36)**  
     Hey shut it already, I said it’s fine. And what should be my decision?

 **Pete (19:38)**  
     the interviews. they said only me joe and andy should promote 4 corktree. i suppose u wud b cool with that anyway. but its still kinda shitty  
     they told us b4 u. 

It’s funny. Patrick has never been a fan of interviews. In fact, over the past year or so that they've been well known enough to get several of them, he's found them to be his least favourite part of the job. He recognises that they’re necessary, and he recognises that as the singer and a prime songwriter – even if he’s not Pete, not their “frontman” – he is expected to do a lot of interviews. That doesn’t mean he has to enjoy them, however. He often rambles too much, when he isn’t keeping quiet and letting Pete speak wherever he can. 

Which is why it’s such a surprise when he reads Pete’s text and is left with a sudden surge of disappointment. He doesn’t want to deal with any interviews, and he certainly doesn’t want to deal with the anxiety of interviews on top of everything else terrifying in his life at the minute.

But it’s another thing he can’t do. It feels like something that’s suddenly snatched away from him, even if it was something he never really wanted in the first place. It brings across the immediate thought that the interviews aren’t the only thing he’ll not be doing. They can forget about doing any other shows to promote the album too.

This is a thought he’s had before, but it was distant then, left behind the higher anxieties like this trip to the hospital. Now though, now it feels like executives have sat in a room with his band and decided Patrick  _can’t do his job_. 

As though Pete can read his mind, his phone lights up again while his thoughts upend themselves.

 **Pete (19:40)**  
     they say they want u to focus on getting better. i do 2

He believes the last sentence, at least. He’ll admit to being a little less sure that the suits at Island are concerned about anything other than how this will look to the public though. Of course they wouldn’t want a sickly dude promoting the album. Patrick doesn't want that either.

He doesn’t reply, and after he’s told he’s free to leave and is standing outside the hospital waiting for Hannah, his phone pings again.

 **Pete (19:45)**  
     are u ok?

 **Pete (19:45)  
**     fuck i mean are you like not less ok than u were b4 i texted u

 **Patrick (19:46)**  
     Don’t worry about it

 **Pete (19:46)**  
     that’s not an answer

 **Patrick (19:47)**  
     I’m being dumb. I don’t wanna do interviews. U know that

 **Pete (19:48)**  
     i do.

      **Pete (19:48)**  
     come over? i’m in a terminator mood

Fuck, but it’s tempting. Losing himself in a future of killer cyborgs while Pete cracks jokes in his ear sounds like heaven. He’s also exhausted though. He’s also aware of the toxins running through him, recalling the warnings from the nurse as she gave him a leaflet on the side effects.

      **Patrick (19:51)**  
     Maybe tomorrow. Thanks though

      **Pete (19:52)**  
     tomorrow. holding u to that

It’s forty-five minutes after he’s sent the first text to Hannah that her car finally pulls up next to him outside the hospital.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry…” she says as soon as Patrick’s sat down. “It’s— work, you know? I didn’t see your text.”

“You said you’d be waiting for it,” Patrick says, hot anger searing his insides even while he’s trying not to let it. He knows she has a life too, but she promised and it’s just… It’s just not fucking fair.

“I know,” she says quietly, voice sweet and gentle and obviously trying to calm Patrick’s frayed nerves. “I was just… so busy.”

Patrick’s not sure how an art gallery could be so busy on a Monday evening an hour before closing, but he says nothing of it. There’s an uncomfortable silence as they drive home together. He’d almost called Joe for a ride. He almost wants to throw that at her, but he doesn’t. He won’t. He stares out the window.

“How… was it?” she asks when they’re around halfway back.

“Fine,” he grunts, because it was. The chemo session wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be, partly perhaps because he spent a lot of it talking with Mitch and Mara, but mostly perhaps because of the spiked cookie that has long since faded. He had expected much worse.  

But then, he doesn’t feel the brunt of it until later that night.

He wakes in the early hours of the morning, slowly at first, more aware of everything as the remnants of sleep die off. Once they’ve faded, he realises what it is that’s woken him. His stomach flips like it’s been infected with snakes; he’s definitely about to throw up. Tearing back the covers, Hannah mumbling something incoherently as he does so, Patrick sprints to the bathroom opposite.

He makes it, just barely, and brings up the pizza he ate earlier –  _a treat_ , Hannah had said as she ordered, obviously feeling guilty,  _it’ll make you feel better_. It did, but now it feels a waste of fifteen dollars.

Very soon his stomach has nothing left to reject and he’s shaking, shivering in just his boxers, the hairs on his arms standing on end. He’s not sure why, because he honestly feels like he’s being roasted on a hot fire. His mouth tastes bitter and his throat burns, painful. The bathroom tiles are wonderfully cool as he lies down on them, just for a few minutes. Just until he stops shaking, stops burning, stops feeling.

None of that comes, just the dull throb from his back and the arm he’s lying on reminding him that this isn’t comfortable, that he needs to get up and make the journey of twenty feet back to his bed.   

It must be at least ten minutes before he’s managed to grasp enough energy to walk on unsteady feet and climb into bed, still shaking. He had at least managed to brush his teeth in that time, so the rampant taste of vomit is less bitter against his tongue.

Next to him Hannah murmurs sleepily, “You ‘kay, hun?” 

Patrick is still shaking; the burning has stopped, he’s freezing. He tries to burrow deeper under the covers, but it doesn’t seem to work. “Yeah,” he croaks, voice distant.

Hannah hums softly, and seconds later he can hear the heavy breathing that tells him she’s already fallen back to sleep.

Patrick stares up at the ceiling for a long time. He doesn’t sleep.

**

Pete stares at him, concern written all over his face, as he says seriously, “Dude, you look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Patrick mutters from where he sits on Pete’s bed. “Where have you been?” he asks. He doesn’t mean it to sound accusatory. It’s just he’s been sat here in Pete’s room waiting for him to come home for almost forty minutes and Pete  _did_  invite him.

Pete is still frowning at Patrick warily as he closes the door and goes to sit beside him. Patrick hasn’t looked in the mirror today but if he appears anything like he’s been feeling then he imagines “shit” is an understatement. He’s finally stopped feeling nauseous, but he’s not sure how long it’ll last. His head hurts like hell; it has done all day. He's so incredibly tired. “I was at therapy,” Pete says softly. “Sorry, I should’ve said…”  

And Patrick feels that all too familiar pang of guilt. Of course he was at therapy. He thinks he even remembers Pete mentioning, weeks ago, that he goes to therapy on Tuesday afternoons now.  

“Oh.” Patrick shuffles along as Pete rests his head against the headboard. “No, it’s— sorry, I didn’t… How was it?” he asks.

Pete laughs a little, something sad caught in the depths of his eyes as he watches Patrick. “Therapy? It was all right. Wanna know what we talked about?”

Patrick shrugs. “I dunno, aren’t you supposed to keep that between the two of you?”

Pete chuckles again, shifting so his head rests against Patrick’s shoulder. “I’m the one getting therapy, not the one giving it. And she says I should be more  _communicative_  with you, anyway.”

“Me?” Patrick rests his head gently against Pete’s. “You talked about me?” He shouldn’t really be surprised. He’s well aware of how much this shit is affecting more than just him; he feels the stab of it every time he looks at anybody he cares about, and that always seems to go double for Pete.

“You’re one of my favourite subjects,” Pete whispers, the ghost of smile quirking his lips. Patrick says nothing to that, but he glances down at Pete, still resting against his shoulder. Pete’s eyes meet Patrick’s. “You thought about talking to a therapist too?” he asks. “It helps, you know. Talking about shit.”

Patrick shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe. The nurse mentioned it.” Apparently, depression is another side effect of cancer. Who’d have thought it?

Pete pulls away, the warmth against Patrick leaving with him. “Terminator?” he asks, grabbing the DVD remote. “I hope you're ready to strap in, you know I’m not stopping after the first one.”

“Actually,” Patrick leans forward a little, hesitating, as Pete turns back, “I was thinking—” He reaches over the side of the bed and pulls up his guitar. He’d brought it with this in mind. He needs to write music, and he needs to do it with Pete’s lyrics— Or, no, not just the lyrics. He needs to do it with  _Pete_. “You have lyrics, right? You always have lyrics.”

“You wanna write together?”

“Yeah. It’s what I’ve been doing at home anyway, whenever I have a free second.” Which he’s beginning to suspect he’ll have a lot of in the coming weeks.

Pete hesitates. “I don’t know if I have anything,” he says, uncertain.

“What do you mean? You always have something.” There’s not a day that has gone by while they were on tour the past four years when Patrick hasn’t seen Pete take out a notebook and write something in it— or else tap furiously at a computer whenever he’s got the chance. Pete always has  _something_.

Pete is frowning, hand pulling at the bedsheets idly. He shrugs, glancing at Patrick under thick lashes and making no move to go and get his notebook.

“Pete,” Patrick says, becoming a little desperate. “C’mon, give me some fucking lyrics. I know you have  _something_.” There’s a pause. “ _Please_.”

Pete sighs, but reluctantly moves over to his desk and picks up a little blue notebook from one of the drawers before throwing it over to Patrick.

Patrick flicks through the book, reading over the last few pages quietly, Pete sitting back on the bed with legs tucked up to his chest. Pete doesn’t seem to have written anything over the past week – in this book, at least, Patrick knows this isn’t his only outlet – and Patrick’s never been more grateful; as much as he needs lyrics, the last thing he wants is to see the worry lines in Pete’s face put to print. However, he soon realises why Pete was so hesitant as he reads the entries from the last few months. He knows what the references to pills, parking lots and hallelujah mean.   

He picks up his guitar and begins plucking at chords, the loose ends of a progression already coming together in his mind, already wrapping around some of Pete’s words. “It’s okay if I use these?” he asks quietly, hoping it is. It’s selfish, maybe. But he  _needs_  this.

Pete doesn’t answer for a short time, enough for Patrick to strum through several lines, not trying to sing any of them out loud yet. “It’s okay,” Pete says finally, softly. Patrick doesn’t turn around, but he feels Pete’s eyes on him. “I don’t even know what the point in writing it down is if you don’t get to do something beautiful with it.”

Patrick writes his music. He didn’t bring his laptop, so his guitar and the spare pieces of paper on Pete’s desk are all he uses as he works. Pete stays mostly quiet, occasional adding his doubt or approval, complaining when he changes the words around too much.

It’s the most normal Patrick has felt since the diagnosis. Even around the tiredness, the headache, the general shitty feeling that hasn’t disappeared since he left the hospital, he can almost believe everything is alright. He can make believe they’re just hanging out while he writes melodies and gets over a little bout of flu.      

It’s normal enough that they even lose track of time, as they often have done while writing together. And Patrick only notices how long has passed as he glances up at the window and sees that the blue April sky has turned a dark violet. Pete is sat cross legged opposite him, chewing on some chips and dip Dale brought up for them. Patrick hasn’t touched them, the nausea threatening to bubble up again as he watches Pete eat.

Patrick strums the last couple of lines, singing the words softly. Most of what he’s written is fragmented, fractures of songs more than anything.

Not that it matters. Even if this wasn’t too late for Corktree, he’s doubtful much of it would go on there. He’s not really writing for any album right now. They have years before they have to worry about writing for an album again, regardless.

 _If_  Patrick  _has_  years…

His playing halts, too quick, the intrusive thought slapping him back to earth, to reality, away from the fantasy he painted around them.

“You okay?” Pete looks up from his chips.

“Yeah.” Patrick puts down his guitar, gaze moving back to the darkened sky outside the window. “It’s later than I thought.” He lies back down on the bed, letting the guitar rest beside him. He’s so tired. The music has been brilliantly distracting, but he has to admit the past few hours have had him constantly blinking and rubbing his eyes in a bid to keep them open. “Sorry, man. I should’ve… we should’ve just watched Terminator or whatever.”

“Nah, dude.” Pete settles back beside him on the bed, close enough that his breath is hot on Patrick’s neck as he turns toward him. “I like writing with you, you know that.”

Patrick closes his eyes. “I should go,” he mutters, not moving.

There’s a quiet pause as Pete shifts beside him. “Sure,” he says, quiet, and his voice sounds far away now. “But I’ll drive you. You look tired enough to fall off the fucking road.”

Patrick mumbles in agreement, looking for the energy to sit up and finding none. “Gimme a minute. My head hurts.”

His eyes stay closed, but he can almost feel the small sad smile Pete’s giving him. “Okay, dude. You rest a minute.”

It could be the approaching daze of dreams, but as he lays there for far longer than a minute Patrick thinks he feels a hand brush gently at his fringe and remove his glasses. He sleeps.

** 

He wakes up seven hours later under the bed covers after the best night’s sleep he’s had in almost a week and grumbles to Pete, awake at his desk and writing in a notebook Patrick doesn’t recognise, for not waking him up.

But as he spots the pack of Tylenol and large glass of water at his bedside, alongside the gentle smile that Pete gives him, he can’t bring himself to feel anything other than grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, i'd love any feedback you'd like to give. catch me on tumblr @1833outboy and [reblog the fic here](http://1833outboy.tumblr.com/post/182277588336/said-ill-be-fine-1833outboy-phancon-fall) if you like.


	4. i don't do too well on my own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick celebrates his birthday.

Time passes, as it must. A little over a week and another chemotherapy session later, Patrick’s birthday rears its head.

A month ago, he was looking forward to this. Twenty-one. He could go to the bar after a show and get a beer – not that he hadn’t already been doing that, obviously – his brief attempt at straight edge behind him – but at twenty-one he could do it _legally_. Things would be better. He’d be a bonafide adult or something. There’s something magical in the number twenty-one. Something you’re told _means_ something.

Well, it doesn’t really mean shit to Patrick now. He has the same amount of cancer at twenty-one as he did at twenty. And it’s not like he can really go out and drink, anyway. Okay— he still could, sure (fuck, maybe he _will_ ) but it’s not encouraged, especially when dehydration is a common side effect of all this vomiting he keeps doing.

His mom calls very early in the morning, and on any other birthday he’s had this would be something he’d be pissed about, and perhaps ignore until after at least 10am. Mornings are for sleeping, after all. But today it doesn’t matter; it’s not early enough to wake him anymore. Sleep evades him constantly, even though he doubts he’s ever felt more tired over the past few weeks. If it’s not the vomiting, it’s his own anxious, runaway mind. His insomnia is at a point where it could give Pete a run for his money.   

“Happy Birthday, Ricky,” his mom says in greeting when he answers. There’s a forced sort of cheer in her voice that he can appreciate, like she’s trying to remember how this conversation would go if he didn’t have cancer. “I hope I’ll still be seeing you later this evening,” she says.

Lying in bed and staring at the ceiling he’s memorised so well, Patrick tries, and probably fails, to mirror her cheer. “Yeah... 'course, mom. I mean, I’m pretty sure Pete and the guys have something planned or whatever, but I’ll come by after.” Pete’s been deliberately cryptic the last few days when it comes to his birthday, like Patrick can’t guess he’s arranged some big surprise.

“Hm, I’ve heard about that.”

“You know what they’re planning?” Patrick asks quickly, curiously.

“I think Pete will disown me as his second mother if I say anything,” she chuckles. There’s a slight pause. “Patrick, I’ve been thinking,” she goes on slowly. There’s something in her tone that reminds Patrick of conversations leading to disappointment on his end, like she already knows he won’t approve of whatever she’s about to say. She’s right. “I think maybe you should move back home. Back here.”

He frowns, sitting up slowly and padding his feet onto the carpet. “Uh. What?”

“You need someone to take care of you,” she insists. “You have—” She stops. Patrick’s mom has called him almost every day since the diagnosis, twice on his chemo days. He hasn’t heard her say the word ‘cancer’ once during those conversations, though it seems like they’re always talking about it in some form or another. “You’re not well,” is what she settles on.   

Patrick runs a hand through his bangs. When he pulls it back, a few strands of hair are left on his palm and he clenches it into a fist, looks away. That started happening a few days ago; there’s more every time. He takes a breath. “I’m not helpless, mom,” Patrick pulls on a pair of jeans, one handed and awkward while still on the phone. They’re a little loose; he’s lost some weight over the past week. “And besides,” he says after a moment. “I… I have Hannah.”

He can practically hear his mother’s frown. “She’s taking care of you?”

There a pause; maybe it lasts too long. Patrick glances at the empty space on Hannah’s side of the bed. For almost an hour last night, Patrick had been out of bed, knees aching on the hard tiles of the bathroom floor, throat burning, shaking hands braced over the toilet seat. Hannah had been… sleeping, probably. She might have been awake when he got up, he remembers her muttering something.

She isn’t here now of course, she has to work. She’d wished him happy birthday this morning, given him a gentle kiss on his cheek, left an envelope and wrapped present on the bedside table for him, which he opened after she’d gone. A sweet, small card with a neatly scribbled “ _love, Hannah”_ inside, and a new pair of headphones. They’re a nice gift, but one he already owns – the same as the pair he uses for his laptop. He’s not sure if she just thought he could like… use the new ones if his current set breaks, or if she genuinely hadn’t seen him already use those headphones pretty much every single day that they’ve been together.

It doesn’t matter. It’s the thought, right? It’s not as though the actual gift is _bad_ …

“Of course she is,” Patrick mutters quietly. “She… loves me.” He sounds far surer than he feels about that, and he’s not sure he even sounds that sure. “She said she would. She said she wouldn’t abandon me.”

“Hm.” Patrick knows that tone. He’s heard it before. He can’t even blame his mom for it.

“And it’s not just Hannah, anyway,” he says quickly. “There’s the guys too. They’ve been really supportive.” He’s not at all unsure or hesitant while telling his mom this. Though annoying at times, Pete, Joe and Andy’s point-blank refusal to leave him alone has been the only thing keeping Patrick from losing himself in his own head. Pete especially has been like a shadow in his presence over the past week, coming over daily, even when other commitments presented themselves. He’s cancelled two interviews already; Patrick heard him argue with Bob about it on the phone.

(It had evolved into argument about what to tell fans. Patrick was in a highly uncomfortable and awkward meeting with Bob and some guys from Island and Crush at the weekend. They’ve already cancelled the upcoming tour, blaming “unforeseen circumstances” – but not cancer. Patrick knows they have to tell the fans eventually, it’s going to become undeniable, one poorly timed picture or fan encounter and it’ll be obvious he’s sick soon enough.

He just wants to pretend a little longer.)

“I know they are,” his mom says softly as he pulls on a t-shirt and sits back down on the bed. A part of him wishes he could roll back into bed and spend his birthday in there. His head aches with tiredness and his stomach flips with some uncomfortable nausea. But it’s rarer for him not to feel this fucking awful now. His mom sighs. “If you’re sure you don’t need me... You know, your room’s still free, okay?”

“I’m sure.” Patrick loves his mom, he really does. But he can’t deal with her stifling him, and he can’t see her drop her entire life to try and take care of him.

“Have you heard from your dad?” she asks, sounding like she already knows the answer.

“Not since I told him about… everything,” Patrick mutters quietly. “He’s… He’s probably busy.” He’s called his dad twice since he and Hannah had dinner with his mom. It went to the answering machine both times.

“He’s running away as usual, is what he probably is,” his mom mutters, sharp and bitter. Patrick stares down at the floor, knowing she’s right. He hears her sigh, soft, catching. “I’m sorry, Rick,” she murmurs. “I— I hope you have a good day today, okay? Enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “We’ll see what Pete actually has planned, but— I’ll try.”

**

Pete arrives at his front door, alone, just before 10am, and goes in to blindfold Patrick almost immediately.

Patrick barely has time to see a grinning Pete, looking excited and probably hyped up on too much caffeine, before his vision is dark and something soft rests against his eyes. “What the fuck, dude?” Patrick struggles to push him off as Pete attempts to wrap a scarf around his face.

“Calm down, birthday boy,” Pete says, and Patrick can hear his grin. “A surprise isn’t a surprise if you suspect it before you see it!” He tightens the scarf, and Patrick sees nothing but blackness, turning left and right like it makes a difference.

“I can’t even finish my coffee before you kidnap me?” he asks as Pete takes his hand, squeezing softly, almost reassuringly. He doesn't actually have a coffee, hasn't been able to drink that since he started the chemo.

“Nope!” Pete pulls him gently toward the door; Patrick hears him lock it behind them with his spare key before they’re heading down the porch steps and to a car parked out front. He helps Patrick into the car – the back, Patrick guesses – and pulls the scarf more firmly over his eyes twice, before pulling back and closing the door.

“Happy birthday, dude,” a voice to his right says. “How’re you doing today?” That’s Joe, sat next him and sounding way too cheerful for 10am on a Wednesday.

“I wasn’t too bad before my bandmates fucking kidnapped me.”

“Not like you weren’t expecting it,” he hears Andy say from the front – probably the driver’s seat, if Patrick had to guess. “I told Pete he was being obvious.” That is true. Pete has implied that his birthday will be nothing but them hanging out at his house so often, honestly Patrick was sort of expecting worse than an impromptu abduction from his own home.

“I don’t know what you mean,” there’s the slam of a car door as Pete seems to get into the front passenger seat, “I’ve been throwing him off the trail like nothing else.”

“Is that what that was?” asks Joe. “You suck at it.”

“You guys know I hate surprises, right?” Patrick points out. “Pretty sure I mentioned this, like. Really recently.”

“I think you meant bad surprises,” says Joe. “You’re gonna love this. It’s—”

“Sh, shh— dude, don’t give anything away!” Pete says, affronted.

“I wasn’t gonna tell him!”

Patrick ducks his head and hopes none of them notice his fond smile below the confines of his makeshift blindfold. They’ve been doing this – this loud, joking, blatant ignoring of the c-word – whenever they can lately. It’s not just that they’re trying to act normal, they’ve been giving deliberate distractions, throwing lyrics, movie nights and music arguments disguised as discussions at him like he can’t guess what they’re doing. He appreciates it, for the most part, most days. He prefers it to the way they would look at him constantly – the way they still look at him when they think he can’t see them.  

It has to come up sometimes though, it’s unavoidable. Especially when Patrick actually gets sick, when he feels it like nothing else. When Pete looks at him and sees the way he rubs his head or stomach or gets completive and just seems to know when he wants to talk, when he wants quiet.    

Patrick appreciates what his friends are doing right now– well, he doesn’t know _exactly_ what they’re doing right now, but he appreciates the sentiment. However, he is beginning to wish that wherever it is they’re going was a little closer; the motion sickness brought about while travelling completely blind is mixing with the aftereffects of recent chemo and giving a nauseous curdling to his stomach.

“How far is this place?” he asks, trying to calm the queasiness. “Whatever it is?”  

“Another ten minutes or so,” Andy assures him. Patrick turns toward the window he can’t currently see out of and focusses very hard on not throwing up the water and half a bowl of cereal he’d eaten this morning all over Andy’s clean car seats. He got letters from both his insurance company and the hospital recently; it wasn’t pretty, and he’d rather not shove a car cleaning bill on top of it.  

Thankfully, Patrick does not throw up in Andy’s car. He doesn’t even throw up when Pete’s pulled him out of the backseat, feeling fairly sure he won’t hurl any time soon as the eels trapped in his stomach finally seem to calm somewhat. He’s less sure he won’t walk into any walls as Pete pulls him gently across the path from the car. Luckily, they’re not outside very long, Pete’s hand tethering him into a building seconds later.

“We’re going down some stairs, dude. Go slow,” Pete orders less than a minute later. There’s a smell in the air, one Patrick almost recognises but can’t quite place.

“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Patrick tells him without any malice. Though his stomach aches and the tiredness pinches at his eyes and head, he’s growing incredibly curious now.

“Okay, stop,” Pete says, and comes to such a sudden halt that Patrick bumps right into his back. “Hold on.” There’s a pause as Pete’s hand disappears from his and Joe and Andy’s footsteps behind him stop. He hears the flicking of switches and the blackness over his eyes seems to brighten slightly to a slightly lighter darkness.  

He feels the pull of fabric behind his head as Pete undoes the scarf from around his eyes and takes it off.

Patrick blinks several times, adjusting to the sudden light that’s assaulting him, and looks around. For several seconds he’s stunned into silence.

Pete is standing beside him. “Well?”

“Pete… This is…”

“It’s good, right?” says Pete, a genuine smile lighting his face like sunrise as he watches Patrick take everything in.

 _Good_ is an understatement. Patrick is not sure he’s ever seen so many records in one place before. It’s a giant library of music. Patrick’s been to lots of record stores before – dozens of them, he’s picked Chicago clean (or _thought_ he had picked it clean) – but he’s never seen a collection this large, vast, rows and shelves of them. Tapes and CDs expanding it further at the back, a small corner of the room dedicated to a couple of well worn but shining music players and stereo systems.

“How the hell have I never been here?” he demands. “I’ve been to every record store across Chicago. You know I have!”

“Clearly not every record store,” Joe says from his other side, grinning and giddy as he watches Patrick look around.

Patrick shakes his head. “What—”

“There’s this new thing you keep ignoring called the internet, dude,” Pete says through a laugh. “Apparently, it’s good for more than porn sometimes. Not many people seem to know about this place, but it’s honestly amazing. Aston Records, don’t worry we won’t blindfold you on the way out. I’m sure you can come whenever you want.”    

Patrick just stares at him, mouth parted in dumbstruck amazement. Then something comes to him as he looks around the huge room of records again. “We’re the only ones here,” he points out.

“Yep, we’ve got the whole place to ourselves.” Andy is already going over to the first row to flick through a couple of vinyl.

“We can play whatever we want,” Pete is grinning hard enough that it must hurt, and he hasn’t taken his eyes off Patrick since he took his blindfold off. “And you should pick out a couple of LPs to take – on us, obviously. Birthday gifts.”

“They’ve got some _super_ rare ones, apparently,” Joe adds. “Some that Pete says you probably don’t have.”

“I _know_ you don’t have them.” Pete takes his eyes off Patrick long enough to glance behind him; Patrick follows his gaze to a small bag left at the bottom of the stairs they’d come down, “Oh, yeah, and we have plenty to eat and drink. All your favourite snacks, of course.”

“Booze too,” Joe adds, already heading over to the bag to pull out some of the food and drink inside.

“Yeah,” Pete says, smile slipping slightly. “I wasn’t sure… If you can’t have that, we don’t have to—”

“Are those _pumpkin_ _squares_?” Patrick asks disbelievingly.

“Your _mom’s_ pumpkin squares,” says Pete proudly, like he himself had grown the pumpkins that flavoured them, as Joe takes out – of course – what seems to be a tin of several joints.

“You are well and truly prepared.” Patrick is impressed, coming over to take a couple of the pumpkin squares. He’s not entirely sure it’s wise while his stomach still feels a little like he’s in the middle of doing ten backflips— but fuck it. It’s his birthday. Fuck the cancer and fuck the chemo.  

Things start off well, in all honesty. Andy goes to put on some music – surprising Patrick with Elvis Costello to start with. “There’s a couple of guitars in the back of the car too,” Pete adds as they compare musical tastes for the hundredth time in four years and Joe smokes by the CD isle. “I know how antsy you get to play when you listen to stuff too long.”

Patrick suddenly has the wildest, strangest impulse to kiss him. He’d say it came from nowhere, but it’s not actually as new as he likes to pretend. He ducks his head and smiles instead, ignores the urge – obviously, he’s used to being confused around Pete sometimes and that’s what happens when you have a friendship like theirs. That’s just what Pete does.

It’s not so hard to ignore when he feels the distraction of a dull throbbing at his head pick up as the morning wears on. The lack of sleep is catching up more and more as he moves between rows of music and the record player in the corner.  

“Dude, they have an Arma CD here,” calls Joe from a few rows away, holding up a case Patrick remembers from years ago.

Patrick takes a breath, then another, willing his body to cooperate. He's regretting those pumpkin squares. “Put it on,” he tells Joe, forcing a smile.

This should be fun, but his body is forcing him to reconsider the request as soon as the screaming starts up. Patrick can appreciate this type of music, he really can, he used to listen to Pete screaming a lot when he was sixteen. But right now? When his head already aches and the nausea is intensifying to dizzying levels and his brain longs for rest? Now, he wishes it would shut up, that everything would shut up.    

“Oh, fuck no,” Pete shouts as Joe mimics the guitar chords from over by the CD player, Andy laughing at both of them.

Pete’s smile slips when he turns back to Patrick, mouth parted for some joke caught at the back of his tongue. Patrick had really hoped Pete wouldn’t notice how shitty everything feels right now.

Pete notices. “Are you okay?”

He swallows. “I’m fine, just. Headache.”

Pete frowns, and turns toward Joe, still standing by the CD player. “Dude, turn that shit down.” He touches Patrick’s arm, too gentle, too understanding. “Are you sure…?”

“I said I’m fine, didn’t I?” he snaps. The regret is almost immediate when he sees Pete’s worry give off an edge of hurt, frown deepening. “Sorry,” he says, he shakes his head. “I’ll be fine, it’s just a headache.”

Patrick is sure Pete doesn’t believe him, his eyes barely leaving his face as the morning bleeds into afternoon. Except instead of the giddy, hopeful beaming he’d been doing as he revealed the surprise to Patrick, now his eyes are soaked in a too familiar worry.  

Patrick is almost done trying to act like he’s okay, like he’s enjoying himself. He desperately wants to, he desperately _should be_ enjoying this – _would be_ if it were taking place a month ago – his body didn’t get the memo apparently.

He drinks a beer. Because for some reason he thinks it might help.

It definitely does not help.

“Is there a bathroom in here?”

“What?” Pete looks round, and his eyes widen subtly when he sees the pale look of mild panic on Patrick’s face. Patrick can’t help but panic, he feels like he’s about to hurl any moment and he really doesn’t want to do it over any of these beautiful records.

“A bathroom,” Patrick repeats urgently, feeling his stomach churn.

“Oh, uh. Yeah.” Pete leads him quickly through rows of music Patrick still wants to look through, but can’t, to a door at the end of the room. “Think this is it,” Pete mutters as he opens it.

It’s a single bathroom, probably just meant for the disabled and blissfully empty when they both spill into it. Patrick lunges for the toilet so hard his forehead smashes against the lid and there’s a blinding pain in both his head and his throat as he empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl.  

“Fuck,” he mutters, feeling his eyes water and his throat burn like fire. His head aches where it hit the lid, but it also aches everywhere else because it never stops aching anymore. He feels a hand gentle on his back, feels Pete settle to his knees beside him and mutter things that only half make sense. He rubs along the upper spine of Patrick’s back gently, avoiding the lower part where the tumour still seems to pulse.

Patrick closes his eyes tight and makes a quiet wish while he vomits his mother’s pumpkin squares into the toilet bowl. He’s shaking, energy gone, and thinks he might just sit here, kneeling at the dirty floor of the bathroom of a beautiful record store, possibly for the rest of his life.

He stops, finally, aching, shivering, breathing heavily and burning from his throat right through to his chest. Pete pulls closer, tries to help him up as he pushes away from the toilet bowl. Patrick shakes his head. “Leave me— leave me alone,” he begs as the back of his throat burns bitter and his eyes sting in a mix of embarrassed frustration and pain.

Logically, he knows Pete has seen him at worse than this. Hell, he’s seen Pete at worse than this, if it comes to technicalities. They’ve shared a van, an apartment, a life, for the better and worse part of four years. Pete has seen Patrick sneeze snot and grossness all over his own face and shirt while sick with a bad cold on stage. Patrick has seen Pete piss a motel bed while black out drunk. They’ve been with one another without a shower or hope of basic hygiene for _weeks_ before. They’ve both seen each other mess up, strike out, screw up lyrics, chords, stunts and relationships.      

Maybe this is not the worst, most humiliating or helpless situation Pete has ever seen Patrick in.

But it feels, somehow, the most vulnerable.

Maybe it’s because it’s his birthday. Maybe it’s because he feels like he’s ruining something special Pete had planned. Maybe it’s because he’s _dying_ – no dancing around it, something _killing_ him slowly from inside his own body. Maybe it’s because Pete is trying so hard to make everything seem like he isn’t dying. Whatever it is, it makes him grit his teeth in angry humiliation, it makes him try to weakly shove Pete off of him with shaking hands, it makes him gasp a sob on half a breath as he clutches Pete’s shirt, trembling.

“Pete,” he gasps, “Fuck, just.”

Pete cups his face, fingers stroking past his hairline. Patrick imagines the hairs that will flutter down to his shoulder from that one motion soon and clutches Pete tighter, pushes him back harder. “Hey, hey, look at me,” Pete whispers, voice cracked. “Patrick— ‘Trick, please. Look at me.”

Patrick closes his eyes, shakes his head. He’s given up on pushing Pete away now, especially when his fists are still clenched around his shirt and he can’t seem to let go; he moves his face away from Pete’s hand, rests his head against Pete’s chest instead, his breaths sharp— throat, eyes, heart sharper.

“Please, Patrick. Look at me,” Pete says from above him, voice gentle and still cracking like he’s going through a second puberty.

Slowly, head heavy, he looks up at Pete. He’s so drained, he’s so tired. Pete is looking at him with an expression that threatens to break in half, wide whiskey eyes blinking wet and mouth a tight line. “You think I’m judging you for this?” he asks quietly, because of course he knows the cruel, outlandish fear that gnaws at Patrick’s guts. “I’m not, I _couldn’t_. I promise.”

Patrick is sure that’s true. He does trust Pete. He thinks he might trust Pete more than he trusts anyone else in the world. It’s just hard to convince that small spark of doubt that reminds him how much he’s judging himself right now.  

Still, he nods, quick, guilty.

Pete is frowning as he reaches a hand forward above Patrick’s eyeline, below his fringe, and Patrick feels a slight, sharp pain from the place he’d bashed his head. Pete pulls his hand back, fingers stained red. “You’re bleeding,” he whispers.

Patrick closes his eyes, recalling typed terrifying words on a creased leaflet. “It’s the chemo,” he mutters, voice rasping. “Makes me bleed easier. Bruise more.”

He feels Pete pull from Patrick’s grip, move away, and the loss is worse than the pain of everything else he’s feeling. His eyes fly open, but Pete hasn’t gone far. He’s at the sink, wetting some toilet tissue before reappearing in front of Patrick, looking determined now. Patrick only realises what Pete’s doing as he reaches forward and dabs at the cut above his eye. He winces and pulls back, the pain sharper, and attempts to take the tissue from Pete’s hand.

“I can—”   

“ _Patrick_.” He’s not being sharp or harsh, he’s not admonishing. It’s more of a plea than anything else. “Let me help you. Please.”

Patrick lowers his hand. He nods, slowly, wincing again as Pete gently moves to try and clean the cut. He looks apologetic, grimacing himself, every time Patrick flinches against the touch. He stops, pulls away, throwing the tissue now stained red into the toilet and flushing it.

“How do you feel?” he asks gently.

Patrick shrugs. He feels like death, like a man dying.

“Do you wanna go home?” Pete asks softly.

Patrick closes his eyes. No. No, he doesn’t want to go home. He wants to go out there and enjoy the music with his friends. He wants to play guitar, he wants to get high and drunk and dance like he’s twenty-one. He wants his head to stop feeling like it’s being slowly and deliberately carved in half. He wants the tiredness to melt away, the energy he used to have to reappear, the dizziness and dull nausea to vanish.

But God, he’s tired. He’s so fucking tired.

And it’s not fair, it’s not fucking fair. He can’t have one day. He can’t have his birthday. He can’t have what Pete wants to give him.

Blinking against the stinging frustration that threatens the back of his eyes, he nods. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I guess I ruined it.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Pete assures him.

Patrick snorts, leaning forward and mumbling words against his knees, “Don’t... tell me you wouldn’t rather be somewhere else right now.”

“I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

“We’re— We’re sat next to a toilet on a floor with God knows what kind of shit on it,” Patrick blinks up at Pete, struggling with the urge to fall forward, lie on this dirty bathroom floor and wait for death. “Hardly the rock and roll lifestyle you were hoping this year would bring, right?”

“I don’t care about that now. I just wanna help you,” he says, hand gentle on Patrick shoulder. “This is… my fault, I should’ve realised— we should’ve done something more lowkey. Stayed home.”

Patrick attempts something of a smile. He swallows down bile and takes a breath. “For you? This was incredibly lowkey,” he says. “And I loved it.” His smile sticks now, genuine and assuring. “I did love this, Pete. It was the best idea you’ve ever had.”

Pete smiles back, weaker than Patrick, something like regret twisting in his eyes, then he glances at the door, pulling himself up and holding out a hand for Patrick to take. He takes it, pushing himself up and immediately letting himself stumble back and lean against the bathroom wall.  

“You need help?” Pete asks, already moving toward him.

Patrick closes his eyes. “I’m tired,” he says. “And—” _Weak_ , he doesn’t say, the word bitter in its truthfulness at the back of his red raw throat, but it burns against his brain the more he struggles forward on shaking legs. “Fuck. Everything hurts. But I’m… okay. I can— I _can_ walk to the damn car.”

“Lean on me,” Pete says softly.

Patrick doesn’t, won’t, but he lets Pete keep a hand firm on his back as he wanders back into the room full of records. Joe and Andy aren’t far away at all, waiting anxiously and frowning at Patrick as he reappears.

He lets Pete explain, lets the words float in the air between them without taking any of them in. He looks down at the floor so he doesn’t have to see their disappointment.   

As they wander back to the car, Patrick comes to recognise the street they’re on, he must have passed it several times without even realising. He’ll come back, he decides. They all will. They’ll do it again before he dies. A few months or a few years or a few dozen years. Before then, they'll come back.

**

Patrick throws up again as soon as he gets home, not much, bile and not a lot else, head resting against the toilet seat for too long before Pete – still here, still at his side, refusing to leave – pulls him to his feet and leads him to bed. He falls onto it, closing his eyes and cursing the body that he seems to have lost control over.

Andy and Joe are in the kitchen, making soup that Patrick won’t eat and utilising the packet of green tea that he still hasn’t opened. He remembers suddenly that he supposed to be going to his mom’s house later. He’ll have to call her, try and convince her he’s okay but not coming to the birthday dinner with her and the family members she’s probably invited. She won’t believe he's alright, will probably show up at his house tomorrow.

Patrick opens his eyes when he feels the mattress dip and Pete fidget closer to him. “I have something else for you,” Pete says quietly. “For your birthday.” He roots around in his jacket pocket for a moment, bringing out a small see-through plastic money bag with something greenish inside.

“Uh.” Patrick takes it, frowning. “A… four leafed clover?” he says, unable to hide his surprise.

Pete nods. “I found it when I was like, twelve,” he says. “After soccer practise. I don’t know if I believe in much, but… I kept it and— and I figure it must work at least a little bit.”

Patrick spins the stem between his fingers, frowning down at it quietly. It doesn’t look that green anymore, drooping and fragile, though Pete has clearly preserved it fairly well. “Why?”

“’Cause,” Pete says softly, and something about his tone makes Patrick look up to meet wide amber eyes. Pete smiles, soft, cheeks pink, and Patrick’s stomach flips in a way that doesn’t have anything to do with the nausea inducing chemo. “I dunno. I met you, right?”

There’s a pause. Patrick stares at him for a moment. “That’s the corniest thing you’ve ever said,” he tells him.

Pete manages a smile, says on half a laugh, “Fuck you, it’s true!”

Patrick smiles back. “You’re stupid,” he says fondly. “But thanks. I’ll keep it close.” He leans over and places it over on the bedside table, close.

Patrick settles back on the mattress, watching Pete watch him before his eyes flutter closed. “Hey,” Pete murmurs. “Before you sleep," Patrick eyes open again, “I was thinking, maybe I could join you and Hannah on Monday.”

Patrick frowns. “Huh?”

“For the chemo,” Pete clarifies. “I know you have… Hannah, but— there’s gotta be more than one visitor’s chair, right? I thought, maybe…”

“Oh.” Patrick may not have mentioned that Hannah has never come to the hospital with him. This wasn’t really deliberate, it just never came up, Patrick told Pete she _was_ going with him back when he _thought she was,_ and… well, he has to admit a stupid part of him wants to pretend his relationship with Hannah isn’t so abysmal right now. “Yeah. I mean, you can come if you want. Um— Hannah won’t… be there, so.”

“She won’t?” Pete is frowning immediately, hand tensing against the pillow. “Is it– work?”

“Uh.” Patrick shrugs, goes for nonchalance. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. “She was there last week though, right?” he asks, in a tone that suggests he’s already planning a murder. “And the first week? Tell me she was keeping you company the first week, Patrick.”

Patrick swallows something down, clearing his throat. He stares at the patterns on the pillow cases. “Not— Not exactly, no.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Pete’s voice is raised now, and he looks beyond tense, sitting up and staring at Patrick in wide eyed incredulity – he’s furious.

“She had work? I—”

“No— No, Patrick, you can’t defend her here!” Pete spits, running a hand through his hair and getting to his feet, pacing the carpet. “How could she not go in with you? And your first damn time? What the fuck?”

“It’s…” He sighs, shrugs. His headache is only getting worse, forehead pulsing. He hopes he doesn’t have a fucking concussion or something from that fall earlier. “She said she wanted to be more positive or something. She wants to keep us and… and all that chemo stuff… separate. It’s a positivity thing, I don’t know.” He shakes his head. Everything Pete’s saying is nothing he hasn’t already been thinking.

Pete stares at him. “She knows what this is, right? She knows this is—” He stops, sucks in breath. “It’s serious.”

“Of course she does, Pete,” he barks back. Frustration is beginning to dig away at him. And it’s not even frustration at Pete, he knows it’s not, it’s frustration because Pete is right. He knows Pete’s right. Hannah is being selfish. “She knows just as much as you know. Just as much as I know.”

“Then how the fuck is she expecting posi- _fucking_ -tivity!” Pete spits, and as though it would do him any good at all, he kicks at the bed, hard. “Fuck!” he shouts through grit teeth, though Patrick suspects that might now have something to do with the pain that must be ebbing through his stubbed toes.

“I know,” Patrick says, quiet. “I know it sucks, but… I don’t know, she’s going through stuff too.”

Pete pauses, breathing heavy, before crawling back onto the bed, collapsing down next to Patrick, closer than before. He reaches over, touches his shoulder. “You… You have cancer,” he says quietly, something desperate in his voice alongside the anger.

“I know, Pete. Fuck, believe me, I know.”

Pete shakes his head, staring at Patrick like he can see something – something Patrick sure as hell can’t see. There’s an undeniably awed warmth dancing in his eyes. “She doesn’t deserve you,” he whispers.   

Patrick swallows thickly, glancing away. “Well,” he says. “She’s who I have right now.”

“She’s not all you have,” Pete mutters, hurt obvious in his voice now.

Patrick looks up at him. “I know, I didn’t mean…” He reaches over, pulls Pete close to him, lets their bodies come together on the covers. “I know,” he says.

Pete doesn’t say anything, just seems to let himself melt into Patrick, pulling him closer, making a small noise from the back of his throat, head against his shoulder.

Patrick wonders if it’ll be Joe and Andy or Hannah who’ll find him cooped up next to Pete like this. He decides he doesn’t give a shit, Hannah can do and think whatever she likes. He needs this closeness. He breathes in faint aftershave, sweat, weed and _Pete;_  maybe this stupid, _whole_ , caring man is right. Maybe he deserves better.

Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! please let me know what you think.
> 
> (and a small heads up that the next chapter might end up taking more than a week to get out, sorry about that)


	5. hearts, lies and friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick learns a thing or two about who is and isn't there for him.

**_Update (May 1, 2005)_ **

_So I know everyone is probably wondering why we announced a huge tour and then cancelled it a few months later without really saying why._

_The truth is a few weeks ago we found out that Patrick has cancer. He’s going through chemo and he’s fighting hard as fuck. Once he’s beaten it, we’re going to come and see you all. I’m sorry we can’t right now, but I hope you understand. I hope you don’t take us for granted. I hope for a lot of things._

_\- Pete_

**

Patrick frowns at the screen, reading and rereading Pete’s words like he can find new meaning each time. He’s not sure what he expected when he asked Pete to finally tell their fans about his illness. Honestly, he kind of hoped he’d give the job to Bob, who’d put down something vague and professional. This is neither. It doesn’t really go into any details or anything, of course, but…

 _Once he’s beat it._ Like it’s guaranteed, like it’s an errand Patrick has to run before they hit the ground running on tours. It’s a nice thought. He likes that Pete’s sort of tried to ease worries, he doesn’t like how it still feels like a lie to him.

He scrolls a little further down, spots the link to the comments fans can leave below.    

_Comments (646)_

That’s a lot of comments for something only posted last night, mere hours ago. Patrick’s not sure because he doesn’t often browse the blog comments or forums, too afraid of what he’ll find and content to leave that side of things to Pete, but he thinks that might be most comments they’ve ever had on one post.

His cursor hovers over the link for a few seconds, finger poised over the mouse pad.

Patrick shakes his head, slamming shut his laptop in time to hear Hannah call out from the hallway. “Patrick!” He listens to her clatter about with bags and keys for a moment. “We’ve gotta go, I’m gonna be late for work.”

Patrick glances at his phone as he makes his way to the hallway, frowning a little as a new text pops up. 

> **Bob (14:42)  
>  **Hey, Patrick. Did Pete tell you about that party tomorrow? To celebrate the album release? I think he, Joe and Andy are all going. You should come too. It won’t be a huge thing, promise. You can leave early if you want. All of us are here for you. Just holla if there’s anything we can do to help.

Patrick wonders on the politest way to say, _No, thanks all the same, planning on throwing my guts out and/or lying in bed for hours._

“Patrick?” Hannah sounds increasingly frustrated.

“I’m here. I’m ready.” Patrick joins her in the hallway with his phone safely tucked in his pocket. He follows her to the door. “Um, we need to pick up Pete on the way,” he adds. “Just FYI.”

Hannah stills at the entrance, frowning. “Pete?”

“He’s coming to chemo with me,” Patrick mutters, ignoring Hannah’s sudden immobility and opening the door himself.

Hannah is still frowning at him. “Why?”

That seems like kind of an odd question to Patrick. “Because he wanted to. He… wants to help.”

Patrick doesn’t say, _in the way you haven’t been helping_ . But either that or his unease toward her, or something – _something_ must show on his face because her hand finds his arm and keeps him still as he goes to leave. “Hey,” she says softly. “You… you know I love you, right?”

He just stares at her.

“This,” she says slowly, “keeping us and… the hospital and everything separate. It’s a good thing. I don’t want you to associate me – _us_ – with that stuff.”  

Patrick watches her swallow, watches her frown deepen. He doesn’t nod, he turns away. Gestures to the car. “We should get going,” he says quietly, and walks through the door before she can bother trying to convince him of anything he can no longer pretend he believes.

Apparently, the conversation isn’t quite finished though. They’ve been driving for only a few minutes, Patrick fiddling idly with the radio, when she turns to him. “You know I don’t like hospitals, Patrick.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Hannah, neither do I. Nobody _likes_ hospitals.”

Hannah shakes her head. “I’m doing my best here, okay? I understand this is hard for you, but I—”

“No, you don’t. You don’t understand _anything_ ,” Patrick barks back at her. The more she tries – or tries to try – or whatever she’s doing – the more he realises: it’s not good enough.

Hannah pulls to a stop outside Pete’s parents, and Patrick can feel her eyes on him. She sighs, and the exasperated release of breath snaps something in his chest.

“I gave you an out,” he says stiffly. “I told you you didn’t have to… do this – any of this.”

“I’m not— I don’t want an out, Patrick,” she says, and he could almost believe she sounds sincere if it weren’t for the underlying edge of exasperation lingering. “Do you want me to apologise for trying to make this easier on our relationship?” she asks. “For trying—”

“ _Easier?_ How the fuck do you think anything is _easy_ right now?”

“I just think you need to—”

The sound of the back door opening interrupts any thoughts on Patrick Hannah might have, however. Which, Patrick reasons, is probably good for his own blood pressure, since he can’t imagine anything good following that, can’t imagine Hannah being correct about anything he fucking _needs_ right about now.   

Pete takes note of the sudden silence and glances between them. “Not… interrupting anything, am I?”

“Nope,” Patrick says, full of false cheerfulness no one in the car buys. He turns to the window, feeling the hot claw of frustration attack his chest. “Everything is just great.”

Hannah does a far worse job of pretending, glancing in the rear-view mirror at Pete with a deep scowl. She doesn’t say hello, and nor does Pete. The ten-minute drive to the hospital is full of silent tension that Patrick does his best to ignore.

She pulls up, as she usually does, outside the hospital entrance, and waits for them to leave. Pete gets out without a single word to Hannah, but Patrick hesitates, hand on the door handle. “Thanks… for the ride,” he mutters, not sure what he’s expecting.

“Yeah, well. I’ll… pick you up later.” She frowns, eyes skirting from Patrick to Pete to the hospital entrance. “Love you,” she adds, still glancing between him and the hospital.

For a moment, he almost thinks she might do it. She might get out of the car and walk to the hospital with them. Maybe she could hold his hand while the nurse slits the IV into his arm. Maybe she’d distract him with jokes and dumb stories from the past, back when they were something resembling happy.

And yet the more he imagines it, the more ludicrous it seems. He turns and sees Pete waiting anxiously by the car, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, and realises that he’s not sure he even wants that to happen anymore. Not with her. Hannah isn’t who he sees doing any of that stuff and trying to force the image is laughable at this point.

“See you later,” he mutters quietly, and gets out the car.

Pete keeps frowning over at him as they make their way into the hospital. There’s the usual worry that constantly haunts his features now, yes, but it’s accompanied by some other curiosity; Pete wants to ask about him and Hannah, Patrick can tell.

The last thing Patrick wants to talk about right now is Hannah and his failing relationship, so he turns things onto a different worry. “Hey, so. Why did Bob text me today about some release party tomorrow?”

Pete grimaces. “Shit. I… Okay, I forgot all about that,” he admits.

“You’re good at forgetting to tell me about parties I’m invited to,” Patrick tells him as they wait briefly at the reception desk, though there’s no heat to his words and he smiles softly.

“Think I’ve had a lot more on my mind this time,” says Pete quietly after the receptionist has pointed them through. As they walk through the hallways that Patrick no longer gets lost in but still hasn’t really gotten used to, Pete asks, “Do you want to go?”

Patrick scoffs. “Of course I don’t.” He smiles to the nurse he knows by name now – Annabel, he talked to her about her kids last week when Mitch left an hour before him – and follows her through to the cancer care ward. “I’d just end up… ruining it,” he mutters to Pete as she guides him to his usual seat and takes his hand, wipes his wrist for the needle.

Pete frowns. He’s watching the nurse poke the IV into his arm. He says softly, “Shut the fuck up already. You’re not ruining shit.”

Patrick looks up at him and Pete manages to tear his eyes away from Patrick’s arm, meets his eyes. God, Patrick wishes he could take away that pain he sees swirling in those brown irises.  

“Hey, Patrick,” a voice says, and Patrick turns to see Mitch sitting down next to him, Mara taking the chair beside him. “You brought a friend today!”

“Oh, uh. Yeah. Pete, this is Mitch and his wife, Mara,” Patrick awkwardly introduces as nurse Annabel leaves them to it. “Mitch, Mara, this is my bandmate, Pete.”

“Hey, man.”

“Great to finally meet you, Pete,” Mitch says with one of his giant grins as they shake hands. Pete glances only briefly at the skin where hair should be on Mitch’s head, smiles back just as wide and friendly, and takes a seat on Patrick’s other side. “Patrick’s told us so much about you already.”

“He has?” Pete keeps smiling, glancing at Patrick with an eyebrow raised in a kind of surprise that makes Patrick’s cheeks flood with warmth.

“I don’t know about… _so much_ , I mean,” Patrick shrugs lamely. Now that he thinks about it, maybe most of the stories he told Mitch and Mara did have quite a bit more Pete Wentz in them than anyone else. “I think I mentioned… Joe and Andy, too… And some of the other guys, um…”

“One ‘beautiful lyrical genius,’ I think he said,” Mitch says, laughing now.

“I did not!” Patrick insists immediately, while Pete’s grin grows and grows. Did he say that? It’s not like it’s not true, but— he definitely didn’t say it like _that_ . Any such thoughts similar to descriptors like _beautiful_ associated with _Pete_ stay very firmly in his head.

“Man, I should’ve come _way_ sooner,” says Pete, utterly delighted now.  

“He’s messing with you, Patrick,” Mara says, clearly taking pity on Patrick as he considers the pros and cons of ripping out his IV and spending the remaining hours in the hospital bathroom until Hannah comes to pick them up.

“Just the vibe I got, maybe. He _basically_ said as much,” says Mitch simply. He shrugs. “How long have you two been together anyway?”

“Oh, uh. In the band?” Patrick asks. “Fall Out Boy’s been a thing since 2001, we—”

“No, I mean the two of you,” says Mitch, and Pete and Patrick both frown at him. “How long have you been together?”

“Together?” Patrick repeats, trying to parse that question into one that makes sense.

“Yeah.” Mitch frowns. Then – perhaps wondering if the effects of chemo are truly taking their toll (honestly Patrick’s beginning to think they might be) – he says, a little slower and louder, “How long have you been dating, my man?”

“Dating?” Pete’s eyebrows seem to disappear into his bangs as he turns to Patrick, as though _he’s_ responsible for that… ridiculous thought.

“We’re— not,” says Patrick quickly.

Mara tilts her head, gaze falling between them. “We thought… You’re not together?”

“N-No… No, not at all.” Patrick clears his throat, shakes his head. “He’s just… He’s Pete. He’s my best friend. It’s not like that.” He doesn’t look at Pete, but he doesn’t need to – he can practically feel the gaze burning into him.

“Our mistake,” Mara says quickly. “Mitch likes to judge and assume without input.”

“I mean, I actually have a girlfriend,” Patrick says. From the corner of his eye he sees Pete’s eyes move away from Patrick and scowl down at the floor.

“Really?” Mitch and Mara both seem very surprised, and Patrick realises he hasn’t actually mentioned Hannah once in the now three chemo sessions he’s had in their company.

“Well, when do we meet this girlfriend then?” Mara asks.

“Um, I don’t know. Tonight, maybe? She’s picking us up after the chemo,” he says, wondering if she’ll be on time enough for them to stick around and meet her.

At least she was only about twenty minutes late last time. Maybe she’ll actually come when he calls this week.

**

She doesn’t come when he calls.

Mitch and Mara hang around with him and Pete for twenty minutes at the hospital gates once their chemo session is complete, but they soon grow uneasy, Mara pulling her thin jacket around her as the minutes wear on, and he tells them they should get going.

“Do you want a ride?” Mara asks, frowning slightly.  

“No, no— It’s fine, um. She’s late a lot, but… she’ll be here soon.”

Pete says nothing, arms crossed, brow furrowed. As the conversation in the hospital had gone on, Mitch taking up most of it with talk of old movies and the vacation to Paris he and Mara want to take after his chemo is done with, Pete had grown quieter and quieter. He spent a lot of the late afternoon watching Patrick, his gaze too often slipping to the drip above Patrick’s head.  

Patrick’s thinks Pete might want to talk about something. He’s not sure he’s looking forward to the conversation.  

He doesn’t miss the glance Mitch and Mara share, but they nod and say their goodbyes without further comment. Patrick is once again left at the hospital entrance, waiting for Hannah, but at least this time he’s not alone. Pete stands beside him, close enough for their arms to brush against one another.

The last couple of times he stood here he must have looked pathetic. Hanging outside the hospital doors for way too long after 7pm like he was homeless, anticipating hypothermia overnight and needing the reassurance of doctors nearby. He feels better with Pete here.

Patrick waits until several minutes after Mitch and Mara have left before letting his head rest comfortably against Pete’s shoulder. “Hey,” he says as Pete places a hand around him, just below his shoulder blades. “So, I saw the blog post.”

Pete’s eyes meet his. “Was it okay?” he asks. “I had a lot of…” He shakes his head, frowning. “I wanted to say more, but… I don’t know.”

“You said…” Patrick hesitates, biting his lip, wondering if he wants to go there tonight. He might as well. “You said once I’ve beaten it, we’ll go back on tour.”

“Well, we will, won’t we?” Pete shrugs, Patrick’s head shifting against his shoulder. “Don’t you want to?”

“No, I mean— _Yeah_ , obviously, I wanna go on tour, but you said it like…” Patrick searches for the right way to phrase it. “You didn’t say _if_.”

Pete stares, eyes narrowing. “I know I didn’t.”

Moving himself away from Pete’s body warmth, Patrick’s fingers idly dig into his pockets to keep from massaging his back; it still aches lightly.

Pete watches as he takes several steps forward and looks across at the quiet suburban houses opposite the hospital. “You want me to scare those kids?” he asks, sounding – quite frankly – pissed off now.

“No, of course not!” Patrick bites back.

Pete walks up beside him, glaring, trying to meet his eyes. “Then what the fuck would you prefer me to say?”

“I don’t know! I just don’t wanna lie to people,” Patrick lifts his baseball cap from his head, runs a hand through his hair and regrets it almost immediately when he feels strands come loose and get caught between his fingers. He yanks the hat back on his head, biting back a cry of frustration. “I don’t want to lie to anyone! I don’t wanna lie like you’re lying to yourse—”

He stops himself suddenly, but Pete hears it anyway. He takes Patrick’s hand; Patrick doesn’t want to look into the eyes that are always full of so much pain now, but with his other hand Pete’s fingers find his chin, tilt his head up to meet them. “There is no if,” he says seriously. “There can’t be.”

Patrick squeezes his hand gently. “You’re so sure…”

“I can’t let it be any other way,” Pete mutters, and Patrick’s not sure if he’s not simply talking about the belief inside his own head now.

Unbidden, lyrics from their new album sing through Patrick’s mind. _The best part of believe is the lie_.

“Did you read the comments?” Pete asks abruptly, gaze moving away from Patrick while their hands stay locked.

He’s changing the subject; Patrick lets him. “No,” he admits. “Seemed like there were a lot though.”

“Yeah, man. You should take a look. Everyone’s really supportive.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Pete frowns. “I mean, I guess there’s probably an asshole or two in there, but— all I saw were people hoping you get better soon. They were all – upset, but… not ‘cause of the shows. They’re worried for you.”

Patrick nods. “Maybe I’ll have a look.”

They fall into a sombre silence, Patrick letting himself rest against Pete’s side again. He tries to imagine touring several months from now, singing to a crowd, music that courses through his veins, music that sticks to him without letting go. No tumour at his spine, no poison in his blood— just the feeling of playing with his friends, with Pete pressed against him and hundreds of kids singing with him. It fills him with nausea that has nothing to do with the chemo, because it all just feels like a distant dream; unattainable, wishful thinking.

He pictures a grey gravestone instead and closes his eyes. Pessimism has him caught and anchored.  

Patrick keeps checking his phone, but there’s nothing new. No word from Hannah, even though he texted her ages ago and he’s been leaving at around the same time every week.

“Fuck this. I’m calling Andy,” Pete announces less than half an hour after Mitch and Mara have left.

Patrick sighs. If it were a week ago, he might complain, might insist they wait at least another ten, twenty, thirty minutes. He doesn’t tonight. He can barely summon the energy to text Hannah again and cancel their ride from her.  

“You free right now, man?” he hears Pete say, phone pressed to his ear. “Yeah— no, he’s here. We’re still at the hospital.” There’s a pause. Patrick starts texting Hannah, telling her not to bother coming to pick them up. “It didn’t run on, we just— Can you come give us a ride? …Great. Thanks, dude. See you.”

Patrick stares at the text he’s drafting, finds himself drawn to the _x_ he’s trying to decide if he should leave on the end. He deletes it, still tired of lying.

“Andy and Joe were outside your place,” Pete says as he puts his sidekick back in his pocket. “They thought you were done by now and wanted to surprise you – wanted to hang out a little.”

Patrick simply nods, and Pete is quiet. He wants to say something else, something he’s trying to hold back. Patrick can feel the frustration leak off of him in waves.

“You know,” says Pete after a few seconds, apparently unable to stop himself. “Hannah really doesn’t have a—”

“Whatever you’re gonna say,” Patrick interrupts loudly, shoving his phone back in his pocket. “Don’t bother. I already know.”

**

Patrick isn’t expecting Hannah to be there when Andy pulls up outside his house with him, Joe and Pete around ten minutes later, so he doesn’t see much issue in inviting the three of them inside to hang out for a few hours. Thus far, his chemo has been fairly consistent in not bringing in the worse side effects until the early hours of the morning following the hospital visits, so he’s not _too_ worried about letting himself relax with his friends, just for a little while.

Plus, truthfully, he’s beginning to hate being alone more and more.

“You have Attack of the Clones, right?” asks Andy, as they fill into the living room and discuss the potential of a movie night. “I wanted to watch it again before the new one comes out in a few weeks.”

“Uh, yeah, think so,” Patrick says, gesturing to his (quite impressive, if he does say so himself) DVD and VHS collection. “Knock yourself out, man.” Watching Star Wars with his friends for several hours sounds like some good escapism. Part of him kind of hopes Hannah stays out at wherever she is. He has a feeling a _conversation_ is coming, and he’s not looking forward to it. Then again, he’s not looking forward to seeing her in general – that’s part of the reason they need to have a conversation, really.  

“As long as it’s not the one before that,” Joe says. “That one _sucked_.”

“You guys want a beer?” That’s aimed at Pete and Joe, both now making themselves at home on the sofa. He thinks he remembers shoving a couple bottles of beer at the back of the fridge somewhere, alongside some scotch he’s yet to open; he hasn’t been drinking at all lately, though God, has he been tempted. “Juice?” he adds to Andy, still rifling through Patrick’s DVDs.

“Sure,” says Andy.

“I can get them,” Joe offers, rising to his feet.

“Hey, no, it’s my house,” Patrick says quickly, shoving him back down with the palm of his hand against his chest and a frown. “I can carry a couple drinks. Jesus.”   

Joe shifts, frowns. He looks a little hurt. “I didn’t mean it like _that_.”

God, they’ve only been here two minutes and he’s already making everything fucking uncomfortable. “It’s fine, I’m—” Patrick shakes his head, avoids the eyes of Pete, who’s giving him another _look –_ all aguish and concern and _fuck_. Fuck that. He turns for the hallway. “Be right back.”

He pauses just outside the door, pinching the bridge of his nose as he feels the edging upsurge of a headache begin to itch at him. Again. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe he should’ve let his friends leave so they can enjoy themselves without having to deal with his shit.

He’s still feeling sorry for himself as he makes his way to the kitchen, but those thoughts are cast aside somewhat when he hears a familiar voice from inside.

He frowns. Apparently, his assumption that Hannah is still at work was completely false. Did he see her car outside? He honestly wasn’t paying much attention.

She must not have heard them coming in; it sounds like she’s talking to someone on the phone, the casual tones of one half of a conversation clear through the kitchen door, left ajar just slightly.

Patrick hesitates. There’s something about Hannah’s voice as she talks that makes him pause before he goes in to let her know he’s home.

He hears her say, softly, “I love you, you know that.” Her mom? It’s gotta be her mom. The only logical explanation is that she’s talking to her mom right now. Obviously.

He shouldn’t listen in on her conversation with her mom, he knows that. He’s about to head in there, about to smile or scowl at her while he grabs some drinks for his friends, he really honestly is. But then… hearing the word _cancer_ from Hannah. It makes him pause.

“Because what am I gonna do? He has _cancer_. If I said… like, anything right now I’d be the biggest bitch on the planet.” Patrick feels a harsh and acidic squeeze of his gut. There’s something close to a titter of laughter from Hannah. “Shut up, I am not. We’re just gonna have to wait a little while, okay? I’ll tell him when he’s done with the chemo, I promise.”

Patrick can’t move, even while he wants to run, even while his stomach gurgles and twists.

“Mm hm,” Hannah’s saying, and he can hear her smile, then her giggle. “What, now? I only just saw you.” More laughter. “Oh, really, is that supposed to turn me on?” She’s joking, and Patrick recognises the tone from nights he used to spend with her between bedsheets.

His stomach jolts and he jolts with it, sprinting for the downstairs bathroom. He barely makes it, vomit hitting the toilet seat before it hits the bowl. His eyes close; eyes, throat, stomach, chest – everything is fucking burning. His gut clenches and hovers somewhere between rage, humiliation and betrayal.  

He hears her voice, hesitant, reproachful, call out, “Patrick?” and he can’t. He just can’t. He hurriedly wipes at his mouth, still tasting the bile at the back of his throat as he stays very still.

He hears the footsteps as Hannah leaves the kitchen, hears her walking through the hallway. Her voice comes again, quiet now, not talking to him. The dull tones of Pete and Joe tell him that they know she’s home now too. Patrick can’t imagine what the four of them are talking about. Joe and Andy seemed as frustrated with her as Pete on the drive back after he explained that no, he didn’t really know where she was and yes, this was common.

The tone and bites of dialogue he can’t properly hear seem short, Pete’s low voice sounding frustrated and louder than the others.

Patrick leans against the sink for a few seconds, breathing slowly and steady. He steels himself and sneaks open the door just slightly.

He’s tired – exhausted actually. He’s sick, always, with the promise of the worst of it coming tomorrow. But most of all, he’s angry, getting more frustrated as he stands in the house that he and Hannah have shared for almost five months, the more he remembers the countless nights Hannah told him she’d be late because she was working, always working. And who was Patrick to complain about that, when he himself was always working on songs or always touring? But she wasn’t – all those nights spent alone in the studio and she was off fucking someone else.

How long has their relationship been a fucking lie?

He edges out the door, walking quietly toward the voices coming from the living room and feeling the anger tether him like a rope; the red hot frustration he’s been feeling for Hannah all damn day has morphed into cold fury. He stops before he gets to the door, hearing the voices inside, louder now.

“—but what the hell would you know about that, right?” he hears Pete say bitterly from inside the room. “You know fuck all about how he’s feeling. You don’t care, you can’t even be bothered to pick him up from a hospital appointment.”

“Excuse me?” Hannah sounds like she’s struggling with the urge to fight against the urge to try desperately to stay polite. Pete has obviously thrown all pretence of playing nice out of the window. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. I care about Patrick,” she says, and Patrick realises how unconvincing she sounds now. “I love him.”

Patrick hears Joe snort, Andy mutter something doubtful and quiet, while Pete spits loudly, “Yeah, right.” His voice is harsh, bitter. “ _I_ love Patrick! I care about Patrick more than you ever have.”

Underneath the anger, there’s a certain degree of something warm filling Patrick’s chest as he listens to Pete tell the room that. He can’t mean it like… Well, he doesn’t mean it like Hannah’s trying to convince them she means it, obviously. He means it like a friend, and Patrick’s always known Pete loves him – loves him like a friend.

But hearing him say it like this, it’s different somehow. The way he says it, shouts it, declares it, it’s different. He’s just not really sure how exactly. There’s something in Pete’s words…

He can’t dwell on that for long though. “He’s my boyfriend,” Hannah says, and Patrick’s had enough.

He stands in the doorway. Hannah has her back to him, and at first even the others don’t see him. Pete stands by the sofa, several steps away from Hannah, fury twisting his face. Joe is half risen from his seat, gaze on Hannah and looking caught somewhere between wariness and anger. Andy still sits on the floor by the TV, but he seems to have found that DVD at least; the screen is lit up with the menu screen, the sounds of a short John Williams composition thundering quietly through the speakers on a never-ending loop.

Pete’s expression changes as he spots Patrick in the doorway, surprise and something that’s not quite fear shifting quickly as he takes in Patrick’s expression. “Patrick.” He’s frowning at him. “Are you okay?” He sounds worried; Patrick has absolutely no idea what his face could possibly look like, but whatever it has makes Pete very still, confusion doused in apprehension.

Hannah turns then, and Patrick meets her eyes. She doesn’t like whatever she sees, he can tell immediately. Does she already realise how far the illusion is shattered?

Patrick doesn’t answer Pete. He’s staring at Hannah now. “Who were you talking to?” he asks, and he’s surprised by the calmness in his own voice.

She hesitates, something close to confusion in her eyes. “What?”

Patrick swallows. “On the phone. In the kitchen, Hannah. I heard you.”

The hallow uneasiness of dread seems to flicker over Hannah’s face. “What? I, just—” Patrick can imagine her thoughts trying to work out what Patrick did and didn’t hear her say. “No one. Someone from work.”

“Really?” asks Patrick, voice rising steadily. “Do you often get fucking booty calls from people you work with?”

She flinches. “I’m not—”

“I _heard_ you!”

He shouts it, but the pause that follows seems far more deafening, though the only noise is that of the Star Wars’ looping melody. His eyes are still on Hannah, but he can sense Pete shift slightly, possibly from the small noise he makes at the back of his throat, like he’s holding himself back from saying something.  

Hannah is still. The denial has gone. “I was going to tell you,” she whispers.

“Yeah, after the chemo,” Patrick says with a scoff. He watches her eyes close as she truly realises just how much of that conversation he overheard.

“Patrick—” she starts, and as she takes a step toward him, he takes one step back.

He shakes his head. “Just go. Go. Get out of my fucking house.” There’s a quiet pause. Nobody moves. “ _Go_ ,” he repeats. He’s bitter and angry and still wondering if she was fucking somebody else while they were happy last year, so he doesn’t say _please_.

He keeps his eyes levelled on the dirty peach carpet, so he doesn’t have to watch her as she brushes silently past him. He’s momentarily worried that she’ll try and gather her things, but the slam of the door informs she decided not to bother yet. She’ll have to eventually, obviously, this house is littered with her crap, fuck, but he’d rather she didn’t tonight.

After she’s gone, there’s a very still quiet, except for John Williams looping round on the TV, still asking if they want to play the movie.  

Patrick hasn’t moved; his eyes stay fixed on the carpet for a few moments until he finally releases a steady breath. He feels a gentle pressure on his arm and looks up in time to meet cautious amber eyes.

Pete. Of course. Always close.

“Christ,” Andy mutters from the carpet.

“Are you okay?” asks Joe, gentle.

Patrick blinks around at them all. The anger is still there, but it’s dampened, some sort of satisfied on hearing Hannah walk out of his life. Underneath it he realises there’s something else. Something that feels disarmingly like relief.

“Yeah,” he says, and finds that it’s not as untrue as he might have expected it to be. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Pete squeezes his arm, a warm and tender pressure, as Joe gestures toward the kitchen and says softly, “I’m gonna get us those drinks. You look like you might need one.”

Patrick is sure he doesn’t need to be coddled anymore than he did when he wasn’t single ten minutes ago, but he lets Pete usher him to the sofa anyway. What he won’t let Pete do though, is try and talk about what just happened. He shakes his head as Pete opens his mouth through a heavy scowl.

“Can we…” He gestures to the TV, to the damn music swimming around the room like a strange Anakin-Skywalker-esque soundtrack to his breakup. “Can we watch the movie and forget about… about everything?” he asks as Andy comes to sit beside him. “Please?”

Jaw tightening, Pete nods before he sits quietly at Patrick’s other side. Joe comes in a minute later with beer and orange juice for Andy. Andy presses play and Patrick does his best to forget, just for a few hours.  

**

He wakes up with his head on Andy’s shoulder and Pete’s arms around his waist. He lifts his head, blinking, and spots a sleeping Joe leaning heavily against Pete’s other side. Apparently all four of them had fallen asleep well before the credits. The screen is showing a menu screen on loop again, and Patrick grabs the remote from Andy’s lap and switches off the TV before it can become embedded anymore in his brain.  

He rises to his feet, head pounding like the music is still playing, and wanders into the kitchen. It’s after midnight, according to the clock on the wall, which means it’s also release day for From Under the Corktree. In six hours the first few malls and Best Buys will be putting out their CDs for kids to buy. Patrick knows their promo has been very limited (his fault) and wonders how much the album will suffer for it.

Headache pulsing, he makes himself a glass of water before looking around for some ibuprofen, coming up short. It might all be upstairs, he realises. He’s been keeping a lot by his bed lately, in case he needs it in the night.

He sighs, but as he turns for the doorway, intent on heading upstairs to find the pills, he stops dead in his tracks. A shadow falls across the doorway, quiet and unassuming and almost knocking Patrick over in shock.

It’s only a second later, as the shadow steps into the light, Patrick realises it’s just Pete standing there. “Jesus,” Patrick hisses, hand on his chest. “You scared the shit outta me, dude!”

“Sorry,” says Pete, holding up two hands in surrender. He takes the few strides left to get close to Patrick, hand on his shoulder, and Patrick sees the concern. “Just… you were gone.” He bites his lip, and Patrick realises the fear in his eyes isn’t the usual worry, there’s something different haunting him. Panic, almost.

“Pete?” Patrick frowns. “You okay?”

Pete clears his throat, ducks his head. “Bad dream,” he admits.

Patrick’s expression softens. “What about?”

Pete just shakes his head, and Patrick takes that as meaning that he’d rather not talk about it. As curious as he is, he gets that.  

Taking the hint, he smiles softly and picks up his glass of water. “The other guys awake?” he asks.

Pete shakes his head, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “I think Joe fell onto Andy’s lap when I got up. We should take a picture.”

“Obviously,” Patrick says, smiling. “I think they’ve had worse blackmail, but a good one for the photo album.”

Pete laughs a little, seeming more relaxed now. Patrick takes a sip of his water, quiet. There’s something he wants to ask, something he’s not sure he has the right to ask. He says after a few seconds of silence, “You know, I’m probably gonna get really sick pretty soon. Like, tonight.”

Pete nods. “That’s okay,” he says. “I’m here.”

Patrick meets his eyes, frowning. “Yeah?” Is it? Is it okay?

Pete raises his chin; he nods again. “I’ll be here.”

Swallowing thickly, Patrick nods too. “I…” He hesitates for a second before ploughing on. “I wanna ask you something,” he says slowly, “but it’s— I mean, you can like, totally say no, obviously.”

Pete frowns. “What is it?”

Patrick tries to smile, small, hopeful and scared, and asks too much, “Could you… maybe stay here with me for longer?” He looks around his kitchen, his house. “For— For a while, I mean? Just until...?” Until it’s over. Until he gets better, or he— doesn’t.

He feels guilt, feels terror, feels the beat of his heart sing desperately, _don’t leave me alone, don’t let me be alone here._

But Pete just smiles, smiles like this is what he was hoping Patrick would ask, like it wasn’t even a question at all. “Dude – of course I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i would love you forever if you left a comment and let me know what you think. you can catch me on tumblr [here](http://1833outboy.tumblr.com) and if you'd like you can reblog the fic [here](http://1833outboy.tumblr.com/post/182829593206/said-ill-be-fine-1833outboy-phancon-fall). hopefully the next chapter will be up at some point in the next few weeks.


	6. from this heavy heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick tries to take control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is later than usual, life's been hectic lately. thank you as always for the awesome comments!

Patrick wakes with a start, eyes wide open and the remnants of his dream already fading, slipping from his mind like hands cupping water. He remembers only one thing: he was alone. He was so alone, so alone it caused a physical ache in his chest, like he would never know anything but loneliness again.

He turns in his bed, heart pulsing in relief when he sees the still sleeping form of Pete beside him.

Pete hadn’t started out asleep next to Patrick last night. Patrick had wanted him to, he just hadn’t been sure how to say it. Which is strange and stupid because it’s not like they haven’t shared a bed several million fucking times over the past four years. Maybe because this is the bed he and Hannah shared for the past five months, the bed they now definitively do  _not_  share.  

In any case, Pete had been hovering by the sofa after Joe and Andy left, so Patrick had got him a comforter and a pillow and left him in the living room and regretted it as soon as he got into his empty bed upstairs.

Not that it mattered much, not when Patrick ended up knelt over and retching in the bathroom half an hour later anyway. Pete had clearly not gotten close to sleep yet; he was there with Patrick less than a minute after he’d rushed out of bed, a hand at the back of Patrick’s neck, a wad full of tissue in his hand to wipe his mouth, whispering words that barely made sense. Patrick was too tired and sore to do anything other than let him. It was almost like a relief, to have someone – to have  _Pete_  – with him while he threw up his guts, knelt on cold bathroom tiles at hours that should be spent dreaming.

After, when Patrick had fallen back into bed and Pete stood over him in only his boxers, hesitating, Patrick grabbed his hand and told him, quiet and exhausted, “Stay.”

And Pete stayed.

Apparently, he stayed right until morning. Patrick reaches out, brushing Pete’s arm and placing a hand on the soft skin of his chest. The anxiety lingers now, even while the remnants of the dream evaporate, but he reassures himself with the steady beat of Pete’s heart instead of his own.

Patrick’s not sure how long he stays there like that, lying on his side with eyes closed, hand on Pete’s heart, listening to his deep breaths. He doesn’t think he falls back to sleep, but he’s at that place between wakefulness and dreams as he hears the changing pattern of the heartbeat beneath his fingers increase, the breaths becoming irregular. Patrick lifts his head and sees Pete’s brow crease in his sleep, his fingers twitch like they want to reach out.

“Pete?” He nudges him, gently, and Pete’s eyes are suddenly wide open. There’s a small gasp as he grasps and grabs at Patrick’s arm, blinking wildly. “Hey,” Patrick mutters softly. “You okay?”

Pete doesn’t let go, but his wide-eyed panic relaxes into something resembling relief as he meets Patrick’s eyes. “Yeah. Sorry— Fuckin’,” he shakes his head, runs his free hand over his face. “Nightmares…”

“I know what you mean,” says Patrick, nodding slightly. They watch each other for a moment. Patrick’s hand is still held over Pete’s bare chest, Pete’s hand still holding his wrist there like he’s afraid of what will break if either of them lets go. Pete’s heartbeat is steadier now, though still faster, maybe, than it should be.

Patrick breaks the spell first, reaching over awkwardly with his other hand to grab his phone on the bedside cabinet next to the clover Pete gave him. As he moves to grabs it though, Pete rolling sideways to accommodate him, he becomes increasingly aware that the crotch of his pyjama pants is brushing quite lightly against Pete’s ass.

He tenses in red hot embarrassment for about two full seconds, but then realises in relief that this does not matter like it should - like it would have a month ago.

His dick has been completely fucking useless lately, and it’s probably the only symptom he hasn’t really talked about with anyone – namely, Pete. He has no problem telling Pete how tired and aching and nauseous he’s feeling, but this is a different matter entirely. He’s almost glad he and Hannah weren’t fucking prior to the diagnosis. He can only imagine the added guilt, humiliation and disappointment that would follow.

As he pulls away onto his back, phone in hand and cock still soft in his pants, his cheeks stay flushed, now in something closer to frustration. Because he feels it in his gut, feels the way the naked heat from Pete’s back warms up his cheeks, but his cock is as soft as it would be sitting with his great aunt Margaret. He’s read the leaflet, he knows it’s a temporary side effect, it’s not him. That doesn’t really make him feel much better.

In this situation, at least, he is pretty damn relieved by the new incapable nature of his cock. After all, what the hell would popping a boner right next to Pete’s ass get him? Besides a first-class ticket right into humiliation fucking station and a revisit to those memories of years back, waking up horny and hard next to Pete in the van. He shouldn’t even feel things like this for his best friend, he’s well aware how perturbed Pete would be if he realised. There’s nothing he could possibly gain here.

And yet this feels almost as humiliating somehow. The reminder that any control over his cock he might have had has slipped away.

Pete is frowning slightly at his reddened face. He shakes the thoughts determinedly from his head, staring down at his phone. His phone that dutifully informs him he’s had two missed calls over the past two hours. Both of them are from his dad.

He frowns at the screen for a moment, some strange mixture of hope and anger stirring in his gut. That’s not fair. Patrick hasn’t heard from his dad since he told him about the cancer, like some sort of bizarre and wildly unfair punishment for an illness Patrick couldn’t help.

“Are you gonna call him back?” Pete asks, leaning over Patrick with eyes wandering over the words on the screen warily. Pete knows as well as Patrick how shit his dad has been lately. He’s stood beside Patrick each time he called, growing in some sort of protective fury every time David Stumph failed to pick up the damn phone.

“No,” Patrick mutters, clicking away from the missed calls. “Not yet.” He should, really, at least listen to his dad’s explanation. But he’s too pissed and too tired to deal with it right now.  

He checks his messages instead. “There’s a text here from Mitch,” he says. “He wants to know if we’ll go to this barbecue he’s hosting at the weekend.”

“We?”

“I mean, yeah. You’re invited too.” Patrick shrugs. It should be obvious. Maybe Mitch knew it’d be unlikely Patrick would go without him.  

Pete nods thoughtfully, rolling over onto his side. “What about this release party Bob’s throwing today?”

“What about it?” When all Pete does is raise a questioning eyebrow, Patrick sighs, turning away. “You know I don’t go to that kinda shit. Even if I didn’t feel like crap, it’s not like they want us to play, so.”

Pete is quiet as Patrick types out a reply to Mitch. “Well, that’s okay,” he says eventually. “I’d rather chill out here with you anyway. We can have our own release party, right? With Ghostbusters and pizza.”

Patrick puts his phone down, frowning. “What? No, you— you wouldn’t prefer that.”

Pete lifts his chin, defiant. “How do you know?”

“I know you,” Patrick says immediately. “You love those stupid things. You should go.”

“I don’t want to go.” Pete’s hand reaches out, hesitates, and falls back on his own stomach. “You’re not going.”

“When have you ever had a problem going to a party without me before?” Patrick asks, and Pete frowns because it’s true. Patrick has never really been the party type. Even after shows, he was often the first to head back to the motel or the van or wherever the hell they were crashing for the night. There have been plenty of times he stayed at their apartment, writing music, jerking off and eating nachos (in that order) while Pete and Joe went off to another party Chris or Adam or whoever was hosting. Pete often tried to convince him to go too, but Patrick telling him no never stopped Pete from going himself.

“This is different,” Pete says. “You know it is.”

“I’m not about to keel over just because you’re not here.”

Patrick has to admit there’s a part of him wishing he’d just shut the fuck up right now, the remnants of that dream reminding him how crushing it is to be… alone. But fuck -  _no_. This is only a few hours, and he’s so achingly aware of how much he’s already keeping Pete from. Fuck, he moved Pete out of his own home. (Well, his parents’ home. But  _still_.)

“Besides,” he adds, “it’s a Fall Out Boy release party. The front man should be there.”

“So should the singer.”

Patrick sighs. “Well considering the singer is dying of cancer and currently feels like microwaved dog shit 90% of the time, I guess the front man, guitarist and drummer will have to do.”

There’s a pause that’s too tense to be natural, and when Patrick looks up to meet Pete’s eyes, he’s surprised by the sudden intense fury he sees there. Pete looks angry as hell, and for a moment, Patrick is confused; he was a little pissy, maybe, but his tone wasn’t that harsh.

Then he realises his slip up, the word he used without thinking. “I didn’t mean—”

“No one is fucking  _dying_ , you asshole,” Pete bites out.

Patrick looks down at the bedsheets. “Right.” He doesn’t know how to explain to Pete how hard that is to parse in his head sometimes. How much more clearly he can see the end as nothing but a grey tombstone, compared to anything else. He doesn’t mean to, he doesn’t want to, it’s not always like that. But sometimes - how can he  _not?_ How can Pete not?

Pete swings his legs over the side of the bed, stalking out the room before Patrick can add anything else. He hears the shower switch on moments later.

Patrick lies back, closes his eyes and listens to the water running in the next room. He tells himself he can’t hear the muffled noises under the sound of the shower running, the noises that seem so much like dry sobs and cries of frustration.  

**

Later that evening, Pete goes to the party.

He’s back two hours later, complaining about its shittiness and insisting Corktree didn’t need the hype from him anyway, it’s already doing well and Joe and Andy are mingling like champions.

Patrick wishes he could find it in him to be mad that Pete so obviously only came back for him. But as his head rests against Pete’s shoulder on the sofa, the Ghostbusters theme playing on the TV, he can’t bring himself to care too much.

**

Mitch and Mara live in Evanston, in one of the nicer little houses in a neighbourhood Patrick actually remembers driving through multiple times to get from their old apartment to shows up here.

It’s not exactly barbecue weather (it’s only early May), but nobody in their back garden seems to mind. There’s a smoky smell of burgers and sausages in the cooling air, and around two dozen of Mitch and Mara’s friends and family have already arrived; they’re laughing and chatting and drinking beers, sat around Mitch’s patio tables or under the cherry trees at the bottom of the garden. A couple of kids are kicking around a soccer ball, cheering whenever it gets high enough to sweep the leaves of the trees.

“Patrick! Pete!” Mitch yells as he jogs over to them as soon as Mara has shown them through to the garden. Though his grin is huge and he’s clearly elated to be here, Patrick can’t help but take in his shadowed eyes and even thinner, pale face. He looks drained, and Patrick wonders if he’s looking into something of a mirror image. He’s been avoiding mirrors lately. They remind him of his fast increasingly bald patches and unhealthy complexion; the chemo is cracking him open more and more.

Patrick ducks his hat a little lower over his head as he smiles back, somewhat guilty at how uneasy it’s making him feel.

“Hey, man,” Pete says, looking around. “Your place is awesome.”

Mitch shrugs, his smile small. “It’s not bad.”

“You kidding?” says Patrick. “Your house has like, windchimes!”  

“Any house with windchimes automatically makes it one to lust over,” Pete adds.

Patrick stares at him. “Did you just say you were lusting over a house?”

Pete nods, his arm suddenly winding around Patrick’s shoulder. “You need windchimes, Tricky.”

Mitch seems to find this amusing. “Give it a few years, guys,” he says. “The suburban life’s just around the corner.”

Patrick tries to smile, something heavy falling into his gut – just like it always does when somebody mentions the future now. Pete’s grip only tightens around Patrick’s shoulder marginally, but Patrick notices it.

You guys want drinks, right?” Mitch asks. “There’s a bunch still in the kitchen, I’ll go get them.”

“I’ll help you out,” Patrick says quickly.

He follows Mitch into the house; for a moment, Pete looks like he wants to follow. Before he can though, Mara has started introducing him to people, and Patrick sees him be pulled into conversation with a small group of people by the patio.    

“Usually people wait for like, July to do this sort of thing,” Patrick tells Mitch, crossing his arms and smiling slightly as they make their way inside. It’s not really cold, by any means. But it’s not really barbecue weather either. There are thick clouds climbing toward them, threatening rain, Patrick can see them through the window.

“I find I don’t like waiting around for things anymore,” Mitch shrugs, searching through his fridge for drinks to take out.  

Outside, Pete is talking quietly to Mara over by the table spread with salad, chips and sandwiches; Patrick watches him quietly through the window. One of the children playing soccer nearby kicks the ball hard enough that it bounces over to hit Pete in the leg, and rather than simply kick it back, Pete apparently decides to show off a little. With the confidence of a man who turned down a soccer school scholarship, he bounces the ball off each of his knees several times, does a little neat trick with the ball on his shoulder. The kids are watching, laughing, whooping. Patrick feels his lips widen to a fond smile the more he watches.

It’s displaced slightly as he suddenly wonders: will Pete have kids one day? Will Patrick ever meet them?

He pictures it: Pete, a dad. Pete, hosting a barbecue just like this one. Pete, looking after some small mini-Petes. Pete, being kissed on the cheek by a young and beautiful and faceless wife.

Patrick frowns, gut twitching with something unpleasant, something different to the desperate longing of not knowing if he’ll be there for this hypothetical future.

Instead of the faceless, beautiful woman kissing his cheek, Patrick lets himself imagine his own lips meeting Pete’s skin, his own hand entwining with Pete’s hand.

The image is distant, carved through a layer of film and too inebriated in fantasy; he twitches his head a little, like he can shake the thoughts out his mind through his ears. The first thought, with the beautiful wife, that was the right one. That’s the one that’ll happen, one day, hopefully. Even if Patrick isn’t there for it. Regardless of if he’s there for it.

“Patrick?” A voice beside him breaks his reverie, and Patrick sees Mitch frowning at him. He blinks at him. “I said, you’ve got your big six-week check-up soon, right?”

“Oh.” Patrick nods. “Yeah. In two weeks,” he says quietly. Two more weeks and they’ll do another MRI on him, another x-ray, tests to see if the chemo that’s been battering his life for the past month is actually working. If it is, they’ll put him on it for another six to eight weeks.

Patrick has been trying desperately not to think about what the doctor might tell him if the chemo is  _not_  working. Trying and failing.

Mitch looks like he might want to talk about it, like he might want to reassure Patrick about things none of them can really know anything about yet. He scans the room for a subject change. “You have a guitar?” he asks, nodding to a photo stuck on the fridge. It’s of Mitch, happy and healthy and sporting shoulder length dark hair, smiling at the camera on a sofa somewhere, guitar ready on his lap.

“I did,” Mitch corrects him, smiling a little sadly. “Loved that thing. I did the best Bob Dylan covers you’ve ever heard – promise you.”

“What happened to it?”

“I sold it,” Mitch shrugs. “Online. Got a decent amount for it too, that was a good guitar.” At Patrick’s frown, Mitch smiles a sad smile and says simply, “Our health insurance ran out. I’m sure you know as well as I do how much chemo costs.”

Patrick does know. Though the insurance his mom put him on when he was eighteen covers much of the chemotherapy he’s been having, he’s still going to have several heavy bills by the end of this.

“We had to re-mortgage the house, sell almost all our old vinyls, pawn Mara’s engagement ring,” he barks a short laugh here, a bitter one, a sad one. “And… yeah, sell the guitar too.” He sighs, eyes far away for a minute. “And we’re still in debt… So, I am afraid you’ll never know my amazing Blowing in the Wind cover.”

He pauses. Patrick doesn’t know what to say for several seconds. All he can do is mutter a small, “I’m sorry,” quiet.

“It’s okay.” Mitch looks over at him. It obviously isn’t okay, Patrick knows this better than anybody. “You want some honest advice, Patrick?” he asks quietly. Patrick nods. “Control. You take something about your life, even something little, and you take back control of it. It stops you going as crazy, you know? Considering how much this kinda shit takes away from you…” He sighs, eyes on the garden, on the people outside. “That’s sort of what today’s about, I guess.”

Mitch takes a gulp of one of the beers he’s pulled out of the fridge as Patrick tilts his head in a nod, hand scratching at the back of his head, feeling loose strands of hair between his fingers. The more he thinks on it, the more the words make sense.

Patrick watches Mitch for a moment. “You can still show me them,” he decides. “The covers, I mean.”

Mitch doesn’t look away from the garden. “Yeah? How’d you figure that?”

“I have a guitar,” says Patrick simply. He has several more than that, at least one of which he’s been meaning on donating elsewhere; he’s already planning on asking Mara how soon Mitch’s birthday is. “I’ll bring it to the chemo session on Monday and you can show me this amazing cover.”

“Wow.” Mitch laughs, eyes on Patrick now. “You’re actually making me look forward to chemo.”

Patrick shrugs. “Music makes most things less shitty, y’know?”

“Matter of a fact, I do know.” There’s a complacent pause as he hands Patrick a couple of six-packs to take outside. “How’s your girlfriend, by the way?” Mitch says as they both watch Pete playing soccer with the kids outside.

Patrick cringes a little. “I don’t know,” he says. “We broke up.”

“Damn. I’m sorry, man. That sucks.”

“Oh. Yeah, it’s okay…” Patrick frowns. He hasn’t thought about Hannah much lately, though she still hasn’t come to collect her stuff. He’s been considering the pros and cons of just letting Pete drive it all to the dump like he suggested when Patrick was trying to box it all up.

“Was it bad?” Mitch asks carefully.

“She wasn’t a very good girlfriend,” he admits. Patrick’s gaze moves to Pete in the garden again; he’s laughing with the kids, teaching them how to keep the ball up above their knees, and although his eyes are marked with the same desperate melancholy that’s seemed a permanent fixture these past weeks, his smile still lights up the garden. Patrick forgot how much he enjoys seeing that smile.

“Pete seems like a good guy though,” Mitch picks up some bottles of coke, smiling at Patrick a little more knowingly than he should be.

Patrick turns his eyes deliberately away from the window. “It’s not like--”

“I know, I know,” Mitch says, but as he slips past Patrick and heads for the door with the drinks, he pauses slightly, turning back to add through a frown, “I just thought I’d remind you. Sometimes the worst parts of all of this shit can be regrets.”  

He disappears into the garden, leaving Patrick with a pack of beers and more to think about as he goes over Mitch’s words in his head.

He’s thinking about Mitch’s advice as they eat burgers later, as he and Pete sit around tables with relative strangers and talk about shit that doesn’t matter. He’s thinking about it as he watches Pete glance at him with that same worry, like he thinks Patrick doesn’t notice, like he thinks Patrick’s going to break in half. He’s thinking about it as he watches one of Mitch’s friends flirt harmlessly with Pete, as he watches the way Pete smiles and ducks his head, as he watches her hand over a piece of paper with her name and phone number written in neat ink.

It’s ridiculous advice from a man who doesn’t really know them at all, Patrick decides, something unpleasant stirring his gut. 

Hours later, Patrick is quiet, eyes out the window while he lets Pete drive them home.

Pete keeps glancing at him, like he knows Patrick’s in one of those odd sort of moods. “Joe and Andy were asking after you, when I texted earlier. They wanna know if it’s cool to come over tonight. We can watch some John Hughes or something, y’know?”

“Yeah, sounds good.” Patrick mutters, eyes still watching the passing houses and cars outside.  “Do you think they’ll mind if we take a rain check on the movie though?”

“I don’t think they’ll mind,” Pete shrugs. “Why? You tired?”

“No,” Patrick mutters, though he most definitely is tired, he’s always tired now, “there’s just something I need to do first.”

**

In the bathroom, Patrick takes off his hat and stares into the mirror for several long seconds. His own reflection stares back him, face a little gaunter than it used to be, the shadows beneath his eyes starker. His hair is definitely thinner; it’s beginning to show skin where it shouldn’t. He takes the electric razor from the side of the sink, feels its solid weight in his hand.

“You sure about this?” says a voice behind him, and Patrick’s eyes turn to the faces behind his own reflection in the mirror.

Pete, Joe and Andy crowd him in the bathroom, looking way more nervous than they have a right to be. They’re not the ones about to shave their fucking heads.

He sighs. “Look, you don’t need to— I already know I’m gonna look fucking stupid, okay?” He goes on, even as he hears Pete start to protest, “But I want to do this— I need to… choose to do it, you know?”

They don’t know. None of them can know, not really. He doesn’t know how to explain that he’s been so stripped of choice, of control, of his own body. He needs something, he needs to grab onto something he can do that’s his to control.  

This is that. He’s tired of watching it happen slowly, helpless— he can take this, he can do it himself.

“It’s fine, it…” He swallows. “If I do this, I won’t see it fall out anymore. And I have to—” he sighs deeply, “—just do it, take control. I’m tired of watching it happen.”

“You wanna rip off the band aid,” Joe says quietly, and Patrick nods.

“Yeah. Exactly.” Patrick lifts the razor, trying to work out where to start. The front of his head? Or should he get rid of the sideburns first? They’ll look fucking dumb if he leaves them to the end, right?

Pete takes a step forward, stands beside him. “You want me to…?” He holds a hand out hesitantly.

Patrick bites his lip, then nods and hands over the razor. He needs their help for this anyway; he’s not sure he’ll be able to get everything at the back. Andy puts a hand on his shoulder as Joe watches Pete hesitate for a second.

Patrick braces himself, waits patiently, expecting to feel the gentle shear of hair falling to his shoulders.

What he’s not expecting is for Pete to raise the razor to his own head instead and promptly slice at a huge chunk of his fringe.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Patrick grabs at Pete’s wrist, alarmed. Several wisps of black hair fall between them.

Pete stares at him. “I want to do this,” he insists. “I wanna… like, in solidarity or whatever. Let me do this for you.”

Patrick stares at him, realisation dawning. “Pete, no—”

“I don’t mind! I swear—”

Patrick snatches the razor from him. “No, Pete! I— I don’t want you to. I don’t want to look at you, and…” And see that broken reflection, that reminder. He thinks of Mitch and Mara. Mara’s hair is short, like it had grown back a little from being buzzed recently. Patrick had wondered if maybe she had also suffered from cancer, but now he thinks maybe this is what she did for Mitch. He can see why it would help, that sense of companionship, of not being alone in this hurdle. But… he can’t bear the reminder, he doesn’t want it to touch Pete like that. “I know a lot of people want stuff like this, but… I like your hair,” he says. “More than I like mine, to be honest. I don’t want you to cut it off.”

“I thought it would help you.” Pete’s shoulders slump. “I want to help,” he says.

Patrick shakes his head. “You’ve done enough,” he whispers. “You  _are_  doing enough – you don’t have to do any more than you’re already doing. And you don’t have shave your own hair off just to try to help me feel a little less shitty.”

Pete just stares at him as he says, very serious, “I’d gouge out my eyeballs if I thought it would help you feel less shitty right now.”

Patrick is torn, not for the first time, between hitting and hugging him. “Well, it won’t. Just… stay whole. That’s what I want. That’d make me feel less shitty, okay?”

Slowly, Pete nods. “Sorry,” he mutters. He slips his hands into his pockets. “I should’ve… asked.”

He should have, especially since his fringe has a chunk missing and – quite frankly – looks fucking stupid. Instead of telling him this, Patrick turns back to the mirror, razor hovering by his fringe.

There’s a long pause before Andy says, softly, “Do you need help?” He’s not impatient or joking, Patrick can tell he’s asking genuinely.

After a moment of hesitation, Patrick hands over the razor to him.

Andy starts slow, but once he realises Patrick isn’t going to tell him to stop, he speeds up a little, and pretty soon there are puddles of copper blond hair surrounding their feet and Patrick’s hair has surpassed the shortest it’s ever been. Patrick keeps his eyes locked on his own face in the mirror, so he doesn’t have to look at the expressions of Pete or Joe as they watch in silence.

It takes a while, and Andy has to use scissors for several minutes of it. His hair has been pretty long in recent months, reaching past the back of his neck, down to the top of his shoulders. But gradually, Andy shaves it shorter and shorter, and soon only the sideburns remain. Patrick was right; left until last, they look fucking stupid.

“You’re getting rid of the sideburns?” Joe asks as Andy hands Patrick back the razor; he starts shaving at the stubble round his chin while he’s at it.

“Yeah? They look like a disaster without head hair.”

“I thought they looked like a disaster anyway,” Joe says through a grin.

Patrick finds himself smiling for the first time since he stepped foot in the bathroom. “Fuck you, dude.”

Once he’s done shaving off the last of his sideburns, the four of them stare at his newly hairless head for a few seconds.

“Fuck,” Patrick mutters. He runs a hand over the top of his head; it feels extremely weird, not smooth like he expected, and Andy seems to have missed a spot behind his ear.

“I don’t think it looks that bad,” Joe insists. Perhaps he can see the beginnings of dull panic stir within Patrick.

“Yeah,” Andy adds quickly. “You want to see bad? I should show you a picture of my hair buzzed short from like ten years ago – it looks worse than this.”

“I think you look good,” Pete says quietly, and Patrick meets his eyes in the mirror. He has a solemn sort of smile, but Patrick can see he means it-- somehow, he doesn’t seem to think this looks as terrible as it  _absolutely_  is. “You always look good.”

Patrick is doubtful. He’s not fucking blind, alright? He can see what it looks like; he looks fucking stupid. He looks like a sick man. A fucking  _dying_ sick man. Bald and sick and dying—

No matter what Pete insists.

“Just… give me my hat,” he says softly. Pete hesitates only a moment before handing Patrick his trucker hat. Patrick slams it onto his head, pulls it down. It doesn’t cover nearly enough of him and he makes a vow to grab his beanie as soon as possible.

At least now he doesn’t have to fear it falling out though, about his already thin hair getting thinner and thinner. It’s actually a relief to shift the hat on his head and not worry about the possibility of hair strands escaping to the back of his t-shirt.

This isn’t okay - nothing is okay anymore, something he’s growing more and more sure of - but it’s better than it was before.

And maybe trying to make things a little better than complete shit is all he can hope for anymore. Maybe soon, gradually, that’ll be okay.

**

 As promised, Patrick lugs his guitar to his next chemo session on Monday.

This is the first time he’s been out of the house since he shaved his head. It probably doesn’t really count, because it’s a hospital, but nobody seems to look at him any differently as he walks through the corridors beside Pete. If anything, more people are frowning at Pete, who still hasn’t got his stupid fringe fixed. This doesn’t make Patrick pull down his beanie any less in a bid to hide as much of his head as possible.  

Nurse Annabelle barely glances at what he’s hiding under his hat; she seems more interested in the guitar in his hands as she sets him up to the IV as usual.

When she asks, Pete tells her through a grin, “I think we’re gonna do a singalong.”

“Bob Dylan style, apparently,” adds Patrick.

Mitch and Mara aren’t here yet, so Patrick starts making sure the guitar is actually in tune. After Annabelle has gone, Pete spends that time yawning and struggling not to rest his head on Patrick’s shoulder.

Patrick tries not to think about how much he absolutely doesn't mind that. He kind of wants to ask Pete if he ever called the girl from Mitch’s barbecue, but he also really doesn’t want to ask. It doesn’t seem like he has, at least. Pete has been attached to Patrick like glue since that small party and he hasn’t seen him make any phone calls besides ones made to Bob, Joe, Andy and his mom.  

“Dude, did you get any sleep last night?” Patrick asks after the third time Pete has jerked his head up from resting against him.

Pete frowns. “Maybe? No? 'Just couldn’t, really.”

“Sorry,” Patrick mutters. There had been no trips to the bathroom last night, but Pete’s been sleeping in Patrick’s bed since Patrick first told him to stay, and Patrick knows he was restless last night. He barely got any sleep either. “If you wanna sleep somewhere else, I—”

“What? No.” Pete shakes his head. “That’d just make it worse, trust me.”

“How about some coffee for us both?”

“Right now?” Pete groans, and instead leans his head against Patrick’s shoulder again, closing his eyes. “How about the opposite of caffeine?”

Patrick shakes him off. “C’mon, man. I brought this guitar for a reason, no one’s going to sleep. Please. You can get Mitch and Mara some too.”

Pete sighs heavily, ridiculously overdramatic. “You’re  _unbelievably_  damn lucky I like you so much, Stump,” he tells him as he gets to his feet, but Patrick can see the smile.

Patrick watches him go, a fond smile of his own following despite himself.

Strumming the guitar, he checks the clock hanging nearby. Mitch is usually here before him, so it’s sort of strange he seems to be twenty-five minutes late. He spots Annabelle passing nearby, and quickly calls out, “Hey— Annabelle?”

She looks back at him, smile brightening her face somewhat, and gestures to the seat Pete vacated. “Got that one well trained, haven’t you? He’s a keeper.”

Patrick laughs, a little awkwardly, cheeks a little pink. She probably doesn’t mean it to sound like he thinks. “I think it’s just ‘cause I’m sick. It cured his laziness.” He shrugs, before going on, “Uh— Do you know if Mitch is on his way? He’s usually here by now, I was just wondering if he was… delayed or something?”

Annabelle frowns slightly, glancing at Mitch’s empty chair, then toward the cancer ward entrance, where one of the other nurses is sitting at a desk and tapping at his computer. “I’ll just go and check for you,” she says, before disappearing to speak to her co-worker.

Patrick idly strums at his guitar as he waits, looking up at the doors every minute or two, on the lookout for Mitch and Mara, or Pete back with their drinks. The guitar makes him itchy to write and he makes a mental note to ask Pete if he’d mind getting in a writing session this evening before the chemo catches up with him later. Maybe he’ll ask about that girl then…

“Patrick?” Nurse Annabelle’s voice is quiet, and as he turns toward her, she hesitates before lowering herself into Pete’s empty visitor chair. There’s something in her expression that sets his anxiety on high alert before she even opens her mouth. She swallows and says gently, “Mitch passed away last night.”

Something heavy and sickening seems to thump to his gut like hard lead. “What?” He shakes his head, frowning. “No, I was with him, we…” He shakes his head harder, convinced now that she must be wrong. She must have the wrong person. “I was with him at the weekend. I don’t understand, he’s fine. I brought this guitar—” He glances down at the guitar in his hands, lifts it up a little – it’s important she gets it. “He’s going to show me his Bob Dylan covers.”

Annabelle’s eyes are sympathetic and desperately sad. “I’m sorry,” she says. She places a hand gently on his while Patrick turns his gaze to the empty chemo chair next to his own, where Mitch was sitting at this exact time last week. “Do you need anything, Patrick? I can stay here until Pete gets back with those drinks, okay?”

Patrick nods his head, numb.

It only takes a few more minutes for Pete reappear, a tray of four coffee cups in his hands. “The machine out there didn’t have sugar and I had to go up like, three flights of stairs to the other machine to get some. And by the way, no matter the sugar you put in, this still tastes like total dog piss. The things I do for you, dude, I—”

But here Pete stops abruptly, watching Annabelle get to her feet and give him back his chair. He’s staring at Patrick, Patrick can feel his gaze even while he stares at Mitch’s empty chair in silence.

“Patrick? What’s… wrong?” Pete’s voice is wrapped in concern as he lowers himself into his seat.

Annabelle seems to be figuring out whether to tell Pete herself, or whether Patrick wants to, so Patrick turns to Pete and says quietly, “Mitch died.” Annabelle, already being called by the other nurse by their desk, leaves them alone.

Pete stares at him. “What?”

“He died,” Patrick repeats. “Last night.”

“But…” Pete looks confused. His eyes move to the drinks on his lap. “I don’t— How? I don’t get it.”

“His heart stopped.”

“Yeah, but—”

“He  _died_ , Pete,” Patrick injects sharply, harsh. Pete twitches back just slightly, a burgeoning frown of hurt appearing on his face. Patrick is too numb for the guilt of it. “He stopped breathing, the cancer got him.” He stares without seeing at the cancer support posters opposite. “What’s to fucking  _get_?”

_The cancer got him._

Patrick wonders, with absent recollection of his own mirror image, how long it’ll be before the cancer gets him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, comments are always super appreciated.
> 
> as always, you can catch me over on tumblr @1833outboy, and can reblog the fic [here](http://1833outboy.tumblr.com/post/183245199731/said-ill-be-fine-1833outboy-phancon-fall) if you'd like.


	7. take our tears, put 'em on ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick attends a funeral.

“No, man. You’re talking out your ass right now.”

Patrick frowns, twirling around the joint he and Joe have spent the better part of half an hour passing between each other. “If you say so.”

Joe takes the joint, shrugging lazily. He gestures to the TV, where Qui-Gon Jinn is taking a lightsaber to the stomach. “Darth Maul’s got like fucking— spikes on his head. And he’s red! You’re— You look like uh, what’s his name. From Star Trek… that… that guy.” Joe is staring at Patrick like he can transfer the name of this mystery “that guy” through telepathy alone. Patrick shakes his head and blinks at him. He’s too high for trivia. Too high for much at all, really. “You know, the captain— French, uh. Oh— Picard. Yeah, more like him!”

“Picard,” Patrick repeats. It takes a moment to even recall who Joe is talking about. He snorts.

“Mm, you look like him,” Joe says. “I had this girlfriend – well, we only went on a few dates – but _she_ said he’s hot, so don’t feel bad. She had like four posters of him in her bedroom.”

Patrick is still frowning, staring down a loose thread in the seam of his jeans. “You’re just trying to make me feel less shitty,” his mouth blurts before his brain has any say in the matter. “‘Cause Pete told you to. But it’s really okay.”

“Pete?” Joe repeats. “What’s Pete telling me now?”

“To sit here, while he’s off, you know,” Patrick flaps a hand a little wildly. Pete and Andy are both at an interview right now – some magazine thing that includes a small photoshoot, otherwise Pete would probably have insisted on doing it over the phone. He wanted to cancel, has cancelled about half a dozen other interviews over the past few weeks, but Bob put his foot down on this one. “Pete told you to look after me,” says Patrick through a cloud of smoke and a not so nonchalant shrug.

When Patrick looks back to Joe, he’s giving Patrick steely at sea glare that seems half confused, half genuinely angry. “Okay,” he says, “first of all: Pete isn’t the boss of me. It doesn’t matter what he told me, ‘cause _I’d_ be here either way. I’m your friend, asshole, not your babysitter.” For someone who must be pretty high, Joe seems determined to make a shit ton of sense and Patrick feels the dull throb of guilt in his gut. “Second of all… Pete like, cares. Don’t be mad at him for that.”

“I’m not mad at him,” Patrick mutters, watching Joe blow an impressive ring of smoke away from his face.

The funeral is tomorrow. Mitch’s funeral. Patrick doesn’t want to think about it, and Pete suggested Joe come over, and then Joe suggested they get him high. It was a no brainer, really. Although getting high isn’t really helping him not think about it too much. It hasn’t stopped him feeling achingly sad. “I’m just…” He trails off; he can’t really put it in words, especially not to Joe. Pete’s been quieter, since Mitch died. The frequency in which Patrick has caught him staring has gone up to levels where Patrick is considering offering to stick a polaroid of himself on the bathroom mirror and the other very rare places Pete goes without Patrick now. He’s been shadowing him constantly. This rare instance of spending a few hours away from Pete is almost a relief, though Patrick still, somehow, misses his company, almost expecting him to come in here with a glass of apple juice and a couple ibuprofen any second.   

Joe shrugs; he has an odd, knowing look on his face that makes Patrick frown. “I know,” he says, annoyingly. Those looks usually belong to Andy; Joe shouldn’t look like that, especially not while he’s fucking high.   

The knowing looks damper down hours later, when the pot is gone, and so has Star Wars; they’re midway through Forrest Gump instead. Patrick is leaning back against the couch cushions, listening to Joe’s running commentary, and hoping he won’t mind too much if Patrick falls asleep right here before the movie finishes, when he hears the sound of the doorbell ring through the room.

He sits up straight, frowning. “Who the hell is that?” The only people likely to come over to his house would simply walk in without ringing the bell, Patrick is pretty sure. He can already picture some door-to-door salesman. He pulls his hat down on his head a little self-consciously. Or no, fuck, what if it’s Hannah? She still hasn’t come for her stuff. The thought of speaking to her again sets his teeth on edge; he turns to Joe. “Could you get it?” he asks. “Please?”

Joe sighs, but he doesn’t look annoyed as he gets to his feet. “Wait right here, dude,” he says.

Joe disappears into the hallway and Patrick strains his ears, leaning his head toward the door as Joe’s quiet, still slightly stoned tone drifts over from the front door. There’s another voice, and Patrick can’t hear what either of them are saying, but it’s a very familiar voice. In fact, it sort of sounds like—

“Uh, Patrick?” Joe sounds both confused and uneasy, like he’s not sure he should be calling for Patrick at all.

Patrick decides to trust him, regardless, and wanders out into the hallway, gaze on Joe standing at the doorway before it turns to the person waiting outside.

There, standing on Patrick’s porch hundreds of miles from where Patrick thought he was, is just about the last person he expected to see.

“Dad?”

As his father’s gaze shifts toward him, he jerks in what can only be described as a double-take, his eyes widening in something close to shock, bordering on _horror_. Patrick supposes he looks very different to the last time his dad saw him, over two months back. His hair gone completely, skinnier than he has ever been in his life with the padding around his thighs and stomach all but gone completely, his face pale and lips chapped, his eyes shadowed with a permanent exhaustion. It takes several seconds for his dad to close his mouth and blink away his pretty obvious alarm. “Patrick…”

Patrick’s stomach twists unpleasantly. “What are you doing here?”

His dad looks uneasy, guilty even, as he walks into the house. “I need an excuse to see my son?” he asks.

Patrick raises an eyebrow, biting his tongue to keep him from swearing at him. Where was this concern before, when all he did was ignore Patrick’s calls? When Patrick needed him?

His dad seems to recognise what Patrick is holding back because his eyes flash with shame. “I’m… I’m sorry, Patrick. I’m so sorry.”

Patrick’s shoulders slump. He wants to stay angry – he still _is_ angry, honestly, the throb of it taunting and familiar – but his dad looks like he’s been driving all day and there’s guilt written all over his face. Patrick mutters, shrugging, “Come in, I guess,” even though his dad is pretty much halfway into the hallway by now. Joe closes the door, glancing between the two of them.

Patrick leads his dad into the living room, and admittedly he doesn’t realise how much the room must smell of weed before his dad is sniffing the air and turning a frown on Patrick. “Have you been smoking marijuana?” He actually sounds like he’s holding back outrage.

Had his dad asked that two months ago, Patrick would be ashamed, defensive and very embarrassed. Now, he has to admit that this is slightly embarrassing, but mostly kind of ridiculously hilarious, perhaps a bit frustrating. “Medical purposes,” he says, unable to keep his amused smile away. It tastes a little bitter.

“That’s illegal in Illinois,” his dad replies automatically.

“And isn’t that unfair,” Patrick mutters, sitting down on the sofa and wishing he still fucking had the stupid weed now. Even though it hasn’t helped. Not really. Not liked he’d hoped it would. The only thing that really helped him feel any closer to better this afternoon was Joe.

His dad sits down as Joe hovers by the doorway. “I’m gonna go… I’ll make us, uh— green tea? Yeah. Tea,” he says helpfully, eyes slightly glazed. Like Patrick, he’s probably still at least a little buzzed. Patrick’s glad he has foresight enough to hide how much.

Then he’s gone and the only sound is that of Forrest Gump glumly explaining his wife’s death to a woman on a bench. Patrick’s dad shifts, still uneasy, but Patrick won’t speak first. He’s kind of afraid of what he’ll end up saying.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because his dad clears his throat and apologises again. “I’m sorry. You told me about the…” He trails off, hand briefly lifted to gesture uncomfortably at Patrick, at Patrick’s cancer, at his life now. He clears his throat again. “I—I reacted poorly,” he admits.

Patrick nods, thinks of apologising for not answering his dad’s calls more recently, but doesn’t reply.  

“Me and Liz have been having problems,” his dad goes on. “This new job isn’t going like I’d hoped and— When you told me, I was so scared, I thought I could just... It was stupid, I didn’t want to deal with it. There’s no excuse, I know, but…” His shifts closer, a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “I’m here now, all right?”

Patrick nods and bites his tongue again He wants to yell at him. He wants to hug him.

“And you’re… you’re going to be okay,” his dad says.

There’s that word again. Sometimes it feels like people are trying to trick him into believing in that one word, constantly. Like it’s a spell, magic that will come true if you only believe in _okay_ hard enough. Like the fairies in Peter Pan. Clap, clap, clap: _I do believe in living._

“I’m here now and I… I want to be here for you, okay?”

Patrick meets his dad’s eyes, swallows thickly, and says quietly, “I have cancer, dad. You know what that means, right?”

“You... “ His dad’s eyes flash with unfiltered fear. “You said—I mean, you’re still doing the chemo?”

“Yeah, but…” He shakes his head. The permanent knot of anxiety in his gut twists unpleasantly. He needs to stop adding _but_ , like all the time, every time, he knows that, Pete always tells him that. But. _But_... “Yeah. I am. And I’m having another MRI scan next week. It’ll tell me how, um. How well it’s working.”

“I’ll go with you,” his dad says immediately. “You won’t be alone.”

Patrick frowns. “I wasn’t going to go alone. I have Pete,” he says. “And mom, and the guys.” He gestures to the kitchen, where Joe’s no doubt hiding out, giving him time with his dad. “I haven’t been alone.”  

His dad nods, slowly. “That’s good,” he says, something in his eyes like guilt, like gratitude. “Well, I can…” He clears his throat, and smiles. Bright and not matching his eyes at all. “Tomorrow, how about we go to that Chinese place, like I said we would, yeah?”

Patrick’s stomach flips uncomfortably, both at his father’s forced attempt at normalcy and cheerfulness, as well as the thought of any kind of Chinese food. His taste in dinner lately hasn’t expanded further than the very bland, certainly nothing the local Chinese place would offer.

It doesn’t matter, in any case.

“No, I can’t tomorrow,” Patrick mutters, turning to the TV so he doesn’t have to look at his father. There’s not much on the TV to look at; the movie’s already over, credits rolling. “I have a… I’m going to a funeral. My friend... He died four days ago. Me and Pete are going to the funeral.”

“Shit, I.. Patrick, I’m so sorry.” He hears his dad hesitate, before asking, apparently too curious, “Who…? Who was it?” To be fair, his father knows most of Patrick’s friends, it’s fair for him to assume he might know who it is.

“You don’t know him, he—” Patrick swallows. He feels like something’s wrapping tight around his throat whenever he talks about Mitch now. “I met him at the hospital, at chemo. He had cancer, and… it wasn’t _okay_ for him in the end.”

Patrick looks up and his dad looks horrified, closing his mouth and swallowing heavily. Patrick’s not sure if he should be making this easier for him. “I’m sorry,” he says again. Patrick’s never heard his dad apologise so much in such a short amount of time.

He shakes his head. “When I called before, I didn’t want you here to go get Chinese food or any of that stuff. I just… I just wanted you to be here, dad.”

“I know. I know that. I’m here. I’m at a… a hotel in Austin,” he says, and Patrick’s allows himself a small bit of relief for the fact that his dad won’t be asking to stop at his house tonight. Not that he doesn’t love his dad, really, but… living with him like this would be worse than living with his mom, for far different reasons. “I’m here now, Ricky.”

He reaches for Patrick, wraps him up in his arms, and Patrick lets him. He lets his dad hold and hug him tight, lets himself close his eyes and pretend he’s seven and just fell off his bike. It’s late, it should’ve happened weeks ago, but he’s here now.

And as Patrick thinks of the funeral tomorrow, of what he’ll find out from that scan soon, he decides that better late than never has got to be worth something.

**

Patrick is lucky enough to have only ever been to one funeral before.

It was his grandfather’s – his dad’s dad – and he was fifteen. His mom made him go and it was with a strange sort of detachment. He was sad that his dad was so upset, and he wished the man hadn’t have died, but his grandparents lived several states away and he had very rarely ever seen his granddad when he was alive; only two or three times, as a small child. Patrick listened to people talk fondly of him, and to people cry for him, and mostly felt very uncomfortable, wishing to be anywhere else.

This is very different.

He’s only known Mitch a few weeks, only spoke with him around five days in all, a few hours each time. But in that time he’s listened to Mitch and Mara talk about the shows they’ve been to, the music and movies they’ve enjoyed, the job they shared – behind the scenes at a small local newspaper company, the things they wanted to do, the vacations they wanted to go on... the family they’d hoped to start. The lives they lived and wanted to live. He feels like he knows them – knew Mitch – better than he knew his granddad.

He feels every bit of the dismal atmosphere today and then some.

Frustratingly, annoyingly, the weather is not at all suitably dismal for the funeral. No, it’s sunny, the warmest day of the year so far, making Patrick sweat under his now too big, too loose black suit. His chest, his throat, his eyes all ache from a pressure he’s trying to keep at bay as he listens to the priest talk about the Lord’s blessing and God’s way and all manner of other things that don’t seem to resonate or connect to the man lying in the coffin they’re all staring at. It’s a graveside funeral, a wave of sad faces dressed in black circling the hole they’ll soon lower Mitch into.  

Pete has not stopped staring at Mara since they first caught sight of her here.

Mara doesn’t seem to notice this. Mara doesn’t notice this because she’s stood at the front, near the priest, and has been crying steadily onto the shoulder of her mother for the entirety of the service. Her desperate tears and muffled sobs chill Patrick’s veins and cause his grip on Pete’s hand to tighten.

Patrick notices though. He notices Pete’s stillness, the way his lips are thin and tight, the way his eyes are hard and still terrified, the way he looks at Mara’s shaking body and the way the hand that isn’t locked with Patrick’s shivers like it isn’t almost eighty degrees right now.

He wonders what Pete sees. If he sees a grieving wife or a mirror image of himself in several weeks or months time. It’s a ridiculous thought, because Pete isn’t Patrick’s in the way Mara was Mitch’s. And yet Patrick’s depressingly sure that Pete’s grief could so easily match and mirror hers.  

He turns away and tries to shake the thoughts off of him. It’s not his, it’s not something he should be thinking about, now or ever. The thought of Pete so miserable isn’t something he ever _wants_ to think about, though it’s growing harder to ignore.

He turns back toward the coffin, and it’s not until he sees it being lowered into the ground that he finally feels his eyes sting sharper; he blinks away wetness that trails down his cheeks without his permission. He chokes out something that sounds more like a whimper than a sob and has the mad, terrible urge to shout, _no, not yet_ , he’s not ready to see this yet. Beside him, Pete’s hold on him tightens, eyes still not seeming to leave Mara but his shoulder pressing gently against Patrick’s in some sort of comfort.   

Patrick doesn’t want to admit that he’s been saying goodbye to Mitch while also seeing a preview trailer of his own funeral play in front of him like a bad movie he doesn’t want to see but feels sure he’ll be dragged to.

At the end of the service, the guests scatter slowly, many crying, a woman who Patrick’s sure must be Mitch’s mother walking with heavy steps, surrounded by several people, with her head bowed and face pale. Patrick is struck by how Mitch was only a little older than he is. Pete has to pull on Patrick gently to move him from where they’ve been stood at the bottom of Mitch’s new grave.

Patrick thinks, briefly, of pulling back and walking toward Mara. But she’s with her family and doesn’t seem communicative and he’s not sure he’d know what to say if he did approach. He keeps thinking of Mitch’s words at the barbecue almost a week ago, about how much debt Mitch was in, how Mara must have funeral costs on top of the medical costs now. It’s not _fair_. None of this – not one damn piece of it – is fair.  

They walk slowly back toward the car together, Pete’s hand still heavy and firm and solid in Patrick’s. Patrick isn’t convinced they shouldn’t stay like this now, hand in hand, for as long as they possibly can. In moments like this Patrick feels like he’s tethering Pete to him, but he still can’t stop himself from wanting Pete with him like _this_. However frustrating it can be to have Pete shadowing him at times, he still wants to keep him like this, even when sees the sadness in Pete’s eyes. Is that selfish? Shouldn’t he be letting Pete go, not clinging on? Wouldn’t that be easier for Pete?

“Patrick.” Pete stops in the middle of the sidewalk, pulling Patrick to a halt with him. He meets Patrick’s eyes and they both stand there, silent and alone, for several long seconds. Pete swallows thickly. “You’re— This wasn’t you, all right?” Patrick doesn’t know how Pete can tell – how he can see so easily into Patrick’s thoughts, into the doubt and the fear and the fucking growing certainty that he’s going to die. But apparently Pete _can_ tell. He knows what Patrick’s scared of. It’s like he thinks he can take this sure set fear away, but all he says – all he _can_ say, really – are words that have started to lose all meaning, “ _You’ll_ be okay.”

Patrick grits his teeth, murmurs, “You don’t know that,” and feels his chest flare with something other than fear and grief.

“No. Stop it,” Pete insists. “You _will_.”

“Shut up. Shut _up_.”

Pete’s voice is rising to a shout, “Why are you so fucking determined not to hear this?”

He pulls his hand free from Pete’s. “Because it’s bullshit!” he shouts back, and he’s glad, so fucking glad suddenly, that there was no room for them to park closer to the graveyard. They left the car several blocks away and nobody from the funeral is around, so he feels less guilty for the burst of terrified, angry sorrow coming out now – sorrow not for Mitch, but for himself. He chokes, lip quivering, “I get it – I get it, you, you and Joe and Andy and my mom and dad and fucking _everyone_ , you’re all just so scared to fucking say it, and I get why.”

Pete shakes his head, fists clenched and eyes flashing.

“But… You know, sometimes it— sometimes it makes it worse, when you say that stuff – don’t worry, you’ll feel better soon, it’ll be _okay_ ,” he barks out something that almost sounds like a laugh but feels more like a sob. “Mitch _died_. I’m gonna… _I’m_ gonna die. It’s— _fine_ , it’s—” It’s not fine, it’s not fine, it’ll never be fine, that’s the _point_ , “I mean, everybody dies, right…? You’re gonna die.” Something tightens in his gut. He breathes through it. “Not… for a long time, obviously. Hopefully not ‘til you’re super old, like a hundred years old and surrounded by people who— who love you, but.” He stops, swallows, ignores the way his bottom lip wobbles dangerously. “Let’s just be real for once, Pete, look at me. I’m fucking _dying_.”

He loses himself at the end of that sentence, making noises that aren’t words and pulling a hand to cover his eyes.

There’s a hand on the back of his neck, another cupping his cheek. Pete’s voice sounds like it’s coming out like gravel. “You’re not dying—” Patrick’s sob changes tune, protesting, “no, _listen_ to me, motherfucker – you’re not— not dying. You’re not sharing dirt with the worms. You say I don’t know you’ll be okay? Well, you don’t know you won’t be. You’re here. You’re breathing. You’re strong, Patrick, so fucking strong. Please. Please— You can’t just— Please,” Pete is begging now, grip against his neck shaking.

Patrick eyes are stinging desperately. He closes them and shakes his head. “Don’t, Pete... ”

“No, stop. Please. Fuck you.” Pete’s words lack any weight, breaking in half.

“Pete.”

Pete collapses into him, shaking, vibrating enough to come straight out of his own skin, and Patrick lets him, feeling hot breath hit his neck along with dampness and the sound of hitching laboured sobs. He’s not sure if they belong to him or Pete. He clings to Pete like he’ll fall if he doesn’t. Like he can climb inside this body and be safe.

Pete’s wet breath moves from Patrick’s shoulder and neck until he’s facing Patrick, meeting his eyes and then leaning forward. Patrick doesn’t realise what he’s doing until he tastes salt and mint and feels Pete’s lips move against his own. Pete kisses like he’s trying to devour him, like he’s trying to take everything that hurts and keep it in himself, he kisses Patrick, hand at his neck and bodies still pushed together, like it’s all he’s ever meant to do.

And Patrick kisses back for about six full seconds, six seconds of being the most full and content he’s felt in weeks, of feeling something click in place, something right, before he fully _realises_ just what they’re doing. Just how bad an idea this is. This is selfish. This is tethering Pete even further.

He pulls back, sucking in air and feeling the absence of Pete like a knife to his throat. He opens and closes his mouth several times. “I just—” He shakes his head, slowly.

Pete’s mouth clamps shut. His eyes duck to the ground, and Patrick pulls him close into a hug again before he can focus too much on the disappointment, the loss, the rejection in his eyes alongside everything else. He pulls Pete close and keeps their mouths away from each other this time.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick murmurs, hating himself. He wants to believe Pete. He wants to say how grateful he is for everything Pete’s done these past few months. He wants to say how much he really, _really_ wants to kiss Pete, it’s just that they can’t – it wouldn’t be fair to Pete, it’d make things worse for him. For both of them, really.

He realises then that what he really wants is to say is _I love you_. He wants to say that and it’s not even a surprise.

He lies instead, “It’ll be okay.”

It’s a while before they finally trail to the end of the street where Patrick’s car sits.

**

After his sixth chemo session, Patrick has another MRI scan taken of his spine.

As he lays in the middle of the machine and listens to the doctors tell him to stay still and calm while they fiddle behind computers, Patrick remembers the last time he was here in this room seven weeks ago, taking another MRI. Back when his biggest fear was that maybe he had something that would keep him from doing his job for a while. That maybe he had something that would require a lot of pain meds. Now here he is, full of cancer and terror and wishing nothing more than to be the stupid kid worried about a strained muscle in his back and the fact that his girlfriend wasn’t putting out like she used to.

It’s funny, how things can change so quickly.

His mom, his dad and Pete all insisted on going to the appointment with him. He’s not sure he needs all three of them there truthfully, but none of them would take no for an answer and he can’t deny that he finds himself relieved and attempting something that might almost be a smile when he comes out into the waiting room and sees them sitting there. Pete stands up immediately, grabbing his hand and meeting Patrick’s eyes. Patrick sees his own terror mirrored back at him. Their mutual silent agreement to ignore the kiss that happened twenty-four hours ago is still in effect.  

They still have to wait for the follow up appointment, the one where Dr Rowland will tell them… if this has all been for— for something. A nurse leads the four of them into Dr Rowland’s office before assuring Patrick that the doctor will be with him shortly. Patrick is so worried it takes a few moments for the words to even register before he nods.  

He sits down in one of the empty plastic chairs in front of Dr Rowland’s desk, Pete and his mom taking seats either side of him. He wonders if Dr Rowland already knows – she must do, she was there while he was having the MRI scan, though he didn’t get a chance to see her face on his way out.  

Behind him, he hears his dad make a noise somewhere between a scoff and a thoughtful hum.

Patrick turns around to look at him, swallowing something heavy. He’s studying the various certificates hanging on the wall by the door. “What...?”

His dad shrugs, shifting from foot to foot. “She went to a state college, is all.”

Patrick closes his eyes. Something’s choking him. He wants to hit something. He struggles out, “Dad, for fuck’s _sake_.”

“I just want the best care possible for you, Rick.”

Before Patrick can snap, his mom says sharply, “Is now the time, David?” without turning to look at her ex-husband. He’s pretty sure this is the first time either of his parents have spoken directly to each other since getting into the car with him and Pete earlier.

Patrick keeps his eyes closed and listens to his parents hiss and murmur at each other, rage quelling into something smaller and bitter. He feels eight years old again. He feels sick too, something clawing at his throat as a hand threads into his and he glances sideways at Pete. The hazel eyes ground him and he’s glad, suddenly, so glad that Pete came too, so glad he didn’t take Patrick’s hesitant insistence that he didn’t need to be here. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t have Pete here now. How can he ever let go?  

The murmurings of his parents fade to nothing and his dad turns back to the certificates on the wall again, thankfully keeping his thoughts to himself this time. Patrick turns to his mom, and as he does he can’t help but take in the paleness of her face, the lines that seem brand new, the way her frown seeps with worry. Wordlessly, he takes her hand with his free one and squeezes lightly. She looks over at him.

They’re quiet. He’s struck suddenly by how much has changed, not just in himself, but in how he’s been with others. “So, what…” he clears his throat. “What’s going on with you?”

She shakes her head, attempting something that’s almost a laugh. “What’s going on with me?” she repeats.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “We never… we never talk about you anymore, it’s just me and the cancer. I just—” He stops, bites his lip.

There’s a pause as she considers for a moment. “The highlight of my week is the support group I’ve been going to,” she says finally.

“Support group?”

“It’s for parents of kids with— with cancer,” she says quietly, almost but not quite choking on the word.

“I didn’t,” Patrick swallows, something like guilt gnawing his stomach, “I didn’t know you were doing that,” he says.

“I never told you,” she says softly, eyes faraway.

“Sorry,” Patrick murmurs. Sorry for not asking, sorry for not knowing, sorry this is happening to you too.

She shakes her head and lets go of his hand, wrapping an arm around his shoulders instead. “It’s okay,” she says. “It’s all going to be okay.” Patrick nods, because if he thinks about it more, if he keeps considering that word, he might throw up all over the doctor’s desk.

Moments later the door opens and Dr Rowland strides in. Pete’s grip on Patrick’s hand tightens, pulsing under his skin like a lifeline. Patrick’s dad stands behind Patrick, a hand on his shoulder, brushing against his mom’s hand without seeming to notice.

Dr Rowland takes a seat behind her desk and looks up at the four of them behind thick, round glasses. Then she clears her throat, frowning. “I’ll get right to the point,” she says, everything about her too serious. “The cancer is not responding to the chemo.”

As Pete’s grip becomes suddenly sharp and vice-like in his hand, Patrick feels his gut drop directly to the soles of his shoes. Everything suddenly seems very still.

His mom makes an odd noise, before murmuring, “What?” as though sure she’d misheard.

“As you can see here,” Dr Rowland moves the screen of her computer so they can see the recent MRI taken of Patrick’s spine. It’s like the one Patrick was shown six weeks ago, except… “The tumour has grown larger and is continuing to grow along the nerve. If we do not remove it now, we risk metastasis.”

“Wha— What’s that?” Patrick’s dad asks as he grips Patrick’s shoulder sharply, leaning toward the doctor, voice panicked.

“A second tumour.” Pete’s voice is strange, strangled, like breathing has become difficult, like he’s choking on the words. Patrick remembers those words staring at him from his laptop weeks ago and wonders if Pete read the same thing – _survival rate after metastasis: <10%._

Dr Rowland seems a little surprised as she nods stiffly at him.

“What do we do?” his mom demands immediately.

“We need to operate,” Dr Rowland looks down at her papers. “Now, I have moved some things around, and I can get you in this Thursday morning with Dr Alderson. She is one of our finest neurosurgeons.”

“Okay, but then he’ll be okay, right?” Patrick hears his dad murmur, faintly. Everything seems far away, like he’s listening through a funnel. “You’re gonna fix it.”

Patrick blinks, once, twice, watches Dr Rowland frown, hesitating. She leans forward, voice soft. “A surgery of this magnitude – considering the placement and size of the tumour… it has significant risks. Our hope was to shrink the tumour down to a more manageable size before operating, but that is now impossible. I do need to warn you all that this surgery is dangerous and… potentially life threatening in itself. The surgeons will attempt to be very aggressive, but—”  

She hesitates.

It’s funny. Patrick has spent the last week convinced he’s likely to die as Mitch died, but as he sits on this hard backed, uncomfortable chair and listens intently, he wants nothing more than to be told by this doctor what he’s been told by so many people who know far less than her. He wants her to say _you’ll be okay_. But Dr Rowland only frowns. And Patrick feels himself braced for impact so fierce, he can already feel the spread of icy, stilling dread through his veins. He squeezes Pete’s hand tight and prepares for the blow. Everything, from the tips of his blood trapped blue fingertips tightened under Pete’s hand to his still thumping, terrified heart, begs for hope that won’t come.  

Dr Rowland continues, “If they are unsuccessful in removing the cancer, then I am afraid we will be out of options.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading. as always, comments make my day. if you'd like to reblog the fic on tumblr, you can do so [here](http://1833outboy.tumblr.com/post/183895965336/said-ill-be-fine-1833outboy-phancon-fall).
> 
> i won't say when the next chapter will be up, but it definitely will be at some point.


	8. i found the cure to growing older

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! so. this fic is absolutely still a thing. 
> 
> i'm so, so sorry this took so long. it's been 5 months, ugh, this wasn't supposed to take nearly as long as that. i have a million excuses but they all seem inadequate tbh, so i'll just give you my eternal apologises and this chapter. it's a little longer than usual, maybe that will make up for it somewhat.

Patrick had not much thought about his own death very much at all before a cold and rainy day in April when the word “cancer” was uttered in a cold and clinical doctor’s office.

Even when their van had shuddered and slid off of the road two years ago, Patrick’s thought process of “oh god, I’m about to die” had barely lasted a few seconds before the aching nauseating warmth of relief had overtaken him. Death and dying were something distant and abstract, far away and wrapped in the very old, or imagined in the dramatic tragedies of movies and television.

For himself, anyway. The anxiety that came with knowing Pete had tried to die one day in a Best Buy parking lot changed things a little.   

His own death though, that wasn’t something he thought of too often. Why would he? Tragedy wouldn’t strike him like that. He had others to worry about. It was so far from his mind. 

Now, lying under the covers of his bed and staring up at the white ceiling of his bedroom, Patrick can think of nothing else. He keeps catching himself picturing the blackness of a coffin. Even though he knows that’s stupid, that’s not how it’ll go. He won’t  _ see  _ the inside of a coffin. He won’t see anything.

Beside him, Pete is clinging to his side. He’s asleep, and Patrick is as jealous as he is glad. Pete’s terrified. Patrick knows this because he’s stopped hiding his tears; in fact he’s spent too many hours of their precious time since that doctor’s visit crying into the fabric of Patrick’s shirt.

They haven’t talked about any of it. 

Joe and Andy were at the apartment after they got back from the hospital, and Patrick told them. He told them before he even said “hello”, because he had to get it out before giving them even a modicum of hope that things were suddenly going to be okay. Andy had taken off his glasses and rubbed his face, and Joe had stared at him with his blue eyes wide open and terrified. Patrick told them everything the doctor had said, meandering and stuttering. Pete didn’t say a single word.

Then when Patrick had finished explaining, the four of them sat in the living room and didn’t talk for a long time, some dumb late afternoon talk show nobody was watching on the TV in the background. The others might have started conversation eventually, might have moved, Patrick has no idea - he’s spent too many hours in a perpetual state of locked terror inside his own head.

He’s still locked in it now. 

Next to him, Pete breathes deeply in his sleep, his grip tightening and then relaxing around Patrick’s shirt. After Joe and Andy had left, the two of them had crawled into bed and Pete had broken down; he’d cried and cried until finally he’d cried himself to sleep. Patrick has heard of being too numb to cry before; he’d felt it himself after first being told he has a tumour in his back. Now, he’s so lost and numb he’s not sure he’ll ever cry again. The world has been desaturised, all that’s left are the panicked thoughts of his mind as he imagines everything that can and could and will happen.  

He’s gotten more and more restless since Pete stopped crying and started snoring softly. It’s this, along with the fact he knows how unlikely he is to sleep now, that leads him to sit up and gently pull from Pete’s loose hold. Pete shifts slightly, brow pulling together in a frown, but he doesn’t stir. 

Patrick wanders away from the bedroom and down into the living room. The lights are off and he keeps them that way, the moonlight shining through bare windows since neither he nor Pete had thought to shut the curtains. Patrick’s eyes search the sky through the window for a moment; he can’t see many stars out, too much pollution, Chicago’s lights too bright for them. He’s not sure of the time but it seems like it’s that odd hour too early to be considered morning and too late even for most night owls to still be up. 

Patrick shivers as he sits down on the couch, cold and wishing he’d dragged a blanket with him. He used to be warm almost all the time. He misses that.  

There’s a new CD on the coffee table. Bob had dropped it off at the weekend, at Pete’s request — their new album. Patrick leans over to pick it up, admiring the cover art; that thrill he’d had upon holding a physical copy of their first album a few years back is there, though stunted, slightly bitter. 

Fall Out Boy. It’s by far the best thing he’s ever done his whole life.

He glances at the song names at the back of the album, opens it up and looks at the CD inside. His fingers brush over their name for a moment before he takes out the CD and puts it into the stereo in the corner of the room. He makes sure the volume is not high enough to be heard in the bedroom, and lets himself listen to the opening bars of the album. His instinct to cringe at his own voice is immediate, but he lets himself focus instead on the words being sung, on Andy’s drumming, on Joe’s guitar skills. 

He smiles, and feels himself choke on something heavy in the back of his throat. The onslaught of grief that bypasses the numbness that’s held him steady for hours now is as sudden as it is terrible. 

Because Pete will live, Joe will live, Andy will live. They’re gonna live and they need to do something with this, or like this, even if Patrick can’t be here to help. He thinks of what they could be — even without him — and it fills him with pride, with some clinging and bruised sort of hope. It does — he swears to fuck it really, honestly does. 

But. But it also fills him with guilty, bitter, ugly jealousy, some sort of acidic and blameful longing for something he’s sure he’s unlikely to ever have now. There’s a stinging piece of him he’s trying to keep small that wants to scream at the unfairness of his friends getting to live while he’s probably set to die shortly after his twenty-first birthday. That they will stand on stages and let the magic of music fill them up while he becomes worm food under the dirt is something he hates to think of, something he can surely only let himself hope for now.

Maybe after they’ve changed their name and found a singer that fits they can name an album after him. A dedication written on the inside of the album case, words kids will glance over or wonder on, recalling with eventual indifference the boy who sang before, the boy who died of a bad back and worse luck.

Patrick sits on his couch and listens to the whole album until the final bars of Xo play and a ringing silence follows.

** 

He ends up back in bed again eventually, winding himself tight around Pete. Though it’s not until long after the birds have started singing and traffic has picked up outside that he finally falls into a fretful and disturbed sleep.

His mom wakes him up with a phone call when the day has pushed into the PM and tells him to come over for dinner later. She sounds different over the phone, her voice thick like she has a bad cold. It takes a few moments for the words she’s saying to stick. 

“Bring Pete,” she says as Patrick sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes. “I’ve already told Andy and Joe to come too. And your dad; we’ll see if he shows up.”

When his voice comes, it’s croaking with lack of use. “Dad?” Patrick recognises the oddness of that statement. His mom never invites her ex-husband anywhere. Really, why would she?

“It’ll be nice,” she says. “I’m making pumpkin squares, just how you like them.”

Patrick can’t tell her he doesn’t want pumpkin squares, will surely just throw them up, when he so badly does want to see her. “Sounds great,” he says, and he tells Pete her plan after he’s hung up the phone.

For a moment he thinks Pete is going to object. There’s a desperate, protective glint to his expression like he wants to pull Patrick back to bed and hold him there for the rest of the day, for as long as possible. It’s only the memory of his mother’s strangled voice that convinces Patrick that wouldn’t be a good idea.

“Come on,” Patrick whispers, pulling on Pete’s hand. “I want to see my parents.”

“Not yet though, right?” Pete murmurs, frowning, eyes still red rimmed. He glances at the alarm clock on the bedside table. “You said dinner. It’s not even two-o-clock yet. Stop in bed with me a while. Please?” The last word comes out desperate, more pleading than anything else. 

After a moment Patrick nods, lets Pete drag him back into his arms, lets him cling tight. Patrick can feel Pete’s heartbeat, his head against his chest, thumping steadily, a little fast. He lets his own breathing match Pete’s, lets himself focus on only the man with his arms so tightly wrapped around him, afraid to let go, and despite the knot of anxiety that’s woven so tightly around his heart, he begins to feel himself slip back into a quiet slumber.   

He wakes up later with Pete’s eyes on him. If he were feeling anything close to normal, Patrick might make a joke about Pete watching him sleep. He doesn’t feel normal though. And it seems a bit unfair anyway, since Patrick was basically doing the same thing for a while last night. 

“Hey,” Pete whispers. “I guess it’s almost dinner.” 

He’s right, and neither of them make anymore excuses to stay any longer in bed.

They don’t talk as they drive down to his mom’s house. Pete doesn’t even turn the radio on, hands crossed tightly over his chest and eyes distant and stuck straight head. Patrick feels like he’s living in some grey, filtered dream. Everything is so, so different from what it should be.  

The dreamlike absurdity isn’t any less apparent when they park outside the house and he spots his dad’s car sitting next to Joe’s on his mom’s driveway, something he hasn’t seen since he was eight years old. 

Inside, his mom is more energetic than he’s seen her in a long time. Dashing from room to room and shoving drinks into hands and tidying a house that looks like it’s been gone over top to bottom several times today already.   

Patrick hates it. He  _ hates  _ it as soon as he’s stepped through the door; he wishes she were still and giving him her full attention, at least enough for him to hug and cling to her like he aches to. He hugs his dad instead, who stands awkwardly by the front door like all he wants to do is bolt outside. Patrick hopes he conveys in his tight hug how much he wants him to stay.  

Half an hour later, the six of them are finally seated around the dinner table. Patrick picks at his salad, feeling queasy, fidgeting with his hat and poking his fork at bits of cheese while his mom talks about things that may as well be happening a million years away on Mars for all he can relate.  

“Your cousin called at the weekend,” she tells him conversationally, her voice both somehow squeaky and deep at the same time. “Brian? Sue’s son, I don’t think you’ve seen him since you were little. Well, apparently he’s getting married in the fall. Isn’t that wonderful? He invited us to the wedding reception. He says you can bring a plus-one, if you want.” She glances at Pete, who’s staring straight ahead with eyes glazed like he’s not listening to a word being said. “Maybe you could bring Pete. Would that be okay, Pete? Pete?”

Pete blinks twice, then looks around the table, meets Patricia’s eyes. “Huh?”

She smiles patiently. “You could come as Patrick’s plus-one, in the fall, to his cousin’s wedding, right? Are you boys on tour in October?”

“I don’t know,” Pete says. “I… Maybe… not.” He looks like he’s having a hard time remembering.

“We hadn’t scheduled that far ahead yet,” Andy says gently. 

“Right,” Pete nods. “We had to cancel a bunch and… I don’t know what’s happening then.” Pete frowns, like the very concept of October is something wild and foreign, which Patrick  _ gets _ . He gets that more than he could say. 

“Well, try and see if you can work around it.” She turns to Patrick, and there’s that smile, so forced it looks like it hurts, in so much contrast to the pain visible in her eyes. “Patrick,” she says. “That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? You haven’t seen some of your aunts and uncles in a long time.” 

“Why are we talking about weddings?” Patrick mutters, fork stabbing at his lettuce too hard. It hurts the way she flinches, makes him guilty and frustrated at the same time. He doesn’t want to think about this. He doesn’t want to talk about  _ this. This _ , weddings, tours, October, futures. 

“Because your cousin called,” his mom says softly. “He’s getting married in October.”

“I might not be here,” Patrick whispers, grip tightening on his fork because his hands keep shaking without his permission. They’re always doing that now. Everything happens without his permission now. He swallows and his voice grows a little louder. He feels the words slip out before he can think about what saying them out loud means. “What if I’m not here? You don’t think we should talk about the other possibility?”

“Don’t… Of course you will.”

“Right,” says Patrick, something hysterical clawing at the back of his throat, something vicious and frustrating and not at all grey and  _ dream _ like. “Right. Because ignoring it all is going to make me not have cancer. It’s going to make me not die tomorrow, or before October gets here.”

“Patrick,” Pete whispers. 

“That won’t… That won’t happen,” his mom says softly.

“But it might!” Patrick is getting worked up, he’s getting frustrated, he can feel it building, a fuse burning, ready to explode. “It could so easily fucking happen. And nobody wants to talk about it, but how can you not see it? I wish I could ignore it! I wish I gave a shit about Brian’s fucking wedding! Good for fucking Brian!”

“Patrick,” his dad snaps. “Don’t— Don’t talk to us like—”

Patrick talks loudly over him. He talks loudly until he’s shouting. “And you just want to eat salad and make plans that’ll never happen! You know what this is?” He gestures around them all, at the salad buffet neatly arranged on the table in front of them, at the faces of the people he loves most. “It’s a fucking  _ wake _ , and I’m sorry I’m the only one here with enough sense to see it!”

He stands up so quickly the chair he was sitting on falls back and clatters to the floor. He barely notices, getting out, out the room before he can regret what he’s said or run out of the hot, sprung out anger coursing through his chest and gut. 

He ends up in the garden, still spiralling, hot wired frustration beating his insides, until he’s kicking the nearest potted plant hard enough to feel pain pulsing against his toes.   

If anything it only makes him angrier, and he grabs the nearest solid object he can find, a rake leaning against the fence, and swings it hard at the pots. They shatter on impact, but he keeps going, blindly hurling all his might and energy into destroying the pots until there’s nothing but small broken sharp pieces of terracotta and a mess of dirt and some sad wilted begonias.      

It’s the flowers, laid down like they’re dying or dead out of the dirty comfort of their pot, that causes him to collapse to his knees, shaking. He feels tears prick his eyes and a vague sense of ridiculousness that it should be flowers that make him cry now, when everything else hurts so much more. 

It seems like he kneels there for a while, shaking, struggling with his tears, before he hears a voice behind him. “Patrick?”

Somebody interrupting his harsh breaths and intense blinking is expected. Somebody had to come out and see how crazy he’d gotten. He recognises vaguely that this somebody sounds like Andy, and not Pete or his mom like he expects and dreads.

Patrick doesn’t answer for a long moment, all his anger and frustration now replaced with that gnawing, squeezing and familiar guilt. He brushes at his eyes and says, voice hoarse, “Is my mom okay?”

“Nobody in there is what I would define as okay, Patrick,” says Andy quietly, and Patrick’s stomach squeezes unpleasantly.

He stares down at the flowers. “When does Target close?” 

“Um, I don’t know,” Andy admits. “Why?”

“I have to get my mom new plant pots,” Patrick says. “New flowers.” He rubs at his face.  

For a moment neither of them say anything. Then Patrick feels Andy’s hand gently touch his shoulder. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Come back inside.” 

He gently pulls Patrick to his feet, and Patrick takes one last forlorn look at the mess he’s made before heading back inside with Andy. 

The house is quiet. Patrick peaks into the dining room, but it’s empty, plates and food left where they were when Patrick ruined the entire meal.

He heads toward the kitchen, slowly pushing the door open to reveal his mom standing at the sink, paused with her hand on the tap as though about run the water. She’s very still, more still than he’s seen her all day.

“Mom?”

There’s barely any seconds at all for Patrick to take in her haunted expression before she’s taking several steps forward and very quickly enveloping him in a tight hug. He hugs back tight, burrowing his face into her shoulder and choking on his guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and once he’s said it once he can’t seem to stop repeating it. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers. He can feel her shushing him, hear her apologising back even though she shouldn’t be. She hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s the crazy one here, the one who shouted at the people who love him most and killed his mother’s begonias. He pulls back and shakes his head. “I’m scared,” he whispers, and it’s as true now as it was forever ago when he told Pete the same thing on a hotel roof at a party neither of them wanted to be at. 

“I know, Ricky. I know. You have no idea how scared I am,” his mom says softly. “But I have to stay positive, I can’t... You have to stay positive.”

Patrick wants to tell her he’s trying. He bites his lip instead and says softly, “I destroyed your flowers. I’m sorry. I’ll get you new ones.”  

“You don’t have to get me anything, sweetie.”

“I’ll get you some new ones,” he repeats. “I—” He swallows, takes a breath. “Next week. Maybe I can get you new ones next week.” 

He says it hoping his mom will feel a little bit better, and when she smiles, and it doesn’t seem forced at all, Patrick knows it was worth it. “That would be nice.” She sniffs, wipes her face. “I was getting tired of the begonias anyway,” she says, and Patrick feels something that’s almost a laugh escape the back of his throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m sorry I ruined dinner.”

She cups his cheeks gently, wipes away a tear like she used to when he was small. “I think your friends want to do something with you — they’re outside. Your dad already left,” she adds, and Patrick tries to pretend like that doesn’t disappoint him, like that does surprise him at all. “But he says he’ll see you at the hospital tomorrow.” 

“I don’t have to go anywhere,” Patrick mutters. “I can stay here tonight and—”

His mom shakes her head. “I’m not about to ruin whatever Pete has planned. Go get some fresh air.” She turns around, opens cupboard doors and shifts through tupperware for a moment. “You should take some pumpkin squares with you though. I didn’t make them for nothing.” 

Several seconds later she’s pushing a container of freshly made pumpkin squares into his hands. He stares at it for a moment before crushing his mom in another tight hug. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she tells him softly.

When Patrick manages to pull himself away and make his way outside, Andy is waiting by Patrick’s car, hands in his pockets and offering a small smile when he spots Patrick. Joe and Pete are nowhere in sight. 

“Where’s Pete?” Patrick asks, because it seems odd that he’s not here now. For weeks, Pete has been right there, right at Patrick’s side whenever he turns around. It’s been as suffocating as it’s been gladly and irrevocably welcome. 

“Pete has this idea,” Andy says slowly. “I… Well— c’mon, we want to show you something, I guess.” He makes his way around to the passenger’s side. “Get in and drive to Joe’s place, we’re meeting them there.”

Patrick does as he’s told, confused and a little hurt Pete would leave without him after the shitshow that just took place at dinner. He's left even more confused when Andy is annoyingly coy and refuses to tell Patrick a single thing on the drive over. 

At Joe’s house, Pete is waiting on the driveway by a familiar van, hands in his pockets, head down. For a moment, as he and Andy make their way toward him, Patrick feels incredibly awkward, incredibly guilty. But before he can apologise for his outburst Pete looks up and their eyes meet, and Patrick knows he doesn’t need to say anything to Pete. Pete knows. Pete gets it.

Joe appears from behind the other side of the van and puts a hand tight around Patrick’s shoulder. “There you are, dude! Ready for some nostalgia?”

Patrick looks up at the van he’d been sure was no longer in Joe’s possession. “I thought you sold this thing,” he says, amazed. 

“I almost did,” Joe shrugs, pulling away from Patrick to admire the rusted decade old van in front of them. “But then, I don’t know. I just didn’t want to yet.”

“‘I’d miss the old girl,’ were I believe your exact words,” says Andy. 

“Shut up, man.”

Pete ignores the both of them and takes Patrick’s hand in his own. Patrick frowns. “Andy said you had an idea…” he trails off, getting lost for a moment in Pete’s eyes. “What’s going on?”

Pete just smiles a very small smile and says softly, “We’re going for a little ride.”

 **

None of them will tell him where they’re going after the first two times he asks, so Patrick doesn’t bother asking a third. Instead he rests his head against the window in the back and watches Chicago pass by outside. If he freezes this moment and concentrates hard enough, he can almost make believe they’re on their way to a show. There is no cancer, no looming surgery. He can close his eyes and pretend he has hair under his hat, pretend he’s only cold and achy from another tiring tour. He can turn back time to over a year ago, when they toured America in this old van and played shows for anything, for anyone, for everyone. 

The truth isn’t exactly easy to ignore though, especially not when Pete’s hand is wrapped so firmly in his own. Pete wouldn’t be holding his hand back then; he’d be shoving his dirty socked feet in Patrick’s face, or resting his head on Patrick’s shoulder, or singing Elvis Costello’s ‘Radio Radio’ loudly and grossly off-key just to annoy him. 

Now, Pete’s quiet, his gaze focussed out of the window. The sun has started to set; Patrick keeps his hand in Pete’s and watches it disappear into the horizon.

They’ve been driving away from Chicago for about two hours when Andy pulls over to the side of the road. They are, Patrick can’t help but notice, slap bang in the middle of nowhere. “Why are we stopping?” he asks.

“You don’t recognise it?” Pete is already opening the van door. It’s only as Patrick undoes his seatbelt and clambers out himself, seeing an old oak tree surrounded by fields of familiar nothing, that he realises they’ve been here before.

Three years ago, in a different van, their old van, when Andy was there and touring with them but wasn’t yet a permanent fixture, they’d stopped here after the van’s engine had given up for the fifth time in about as many weeks. Broken down, their phones either dead or without any signal, they’d been forced to wait for a passing car on the side of a stretch road where they’d seen no car pass for miles.    

It had taken hours for a truck to finally stop and offer them a ride to a working phone, but it was — weirdly, perhaps — a few hours that Patrick looks back on with fondness, rather than annoyance. He remembers having a long conversation with Andy about 80s punk bands while Joe and Pete tried (and failed) to look for any nearby payphone. He remembers daring them all to climb the oak tree and almost having a heart attack when Joe tried and then promptly fell off on the fourth branch up (he got up with a small bruise, no broken bones, and laughed at the panicked look on Patrick’s face, of course). 

He remembers being cooped inside the van with his guitar after it started to rain, Pete right at his side, strumming mindlessly while Pete watched with riveted eyes, heavy with something Patrick had almost thought was… 

With what Patrick had almost thought was  _ something _ . With what may have been and may still be  _ something _ .

He remembers the whole evening pretty fondly, is the point. He hadn’t realised the others thought of it the same. 

“It just seemed like, I don’t know, you wanted to... get out,” says Pete. “And I don’t know why, but I thought of this place.”

“You thought right,” says Patrick, letting himself smile. It feels odd, like he’d forgotten how, but it’s not forced. “It was... good, last time we were here.” It was, he remembers, one of the moments that made him realise that the four of them clicked, not just on stage, but as people who enjoy each other’s company. As a unit. As best friends.

Above them, a half moon hangs in the sky, surrounded by a scattered array of stars. Much, much more than Patrick had seen last night, more than Patrick has ever seen, maybe - but then, when has he ever taken the time to look, really look?

At the front of the van, Andy opens the driver side door but doesn’t get out, turning the radio up a little - some current pop song Patrick vaguely recognises playing loudly. 

Joe takes a bite of one of the pumpkin squares Patrick had left on the backseat before rifling through the glove compartment. He yelps a little, then mutters, annoyed, “Okay, whoever left a half eaten Butterfinger in here to melt all over everything is an asshole, FYI.”

“I think I was saving that,” Pete admits from outside, near the back of the van, and Joe’s annoyed and murmured “asshole” in reply is so familiar and nostalgic, Patrick feels it hit him square in the chest.   

“Patrick,” says Pete, and Patrick turns to see him clamber up onto the back the tire, reaching up to pull himself onto the roof of the van. “Come up here, I wanna show you something.”

“Does Joe mind you doing that?” Patrick asks, but he follows Pete’s lead regardless.

“Joe does mind!” calls Joe loudly from the passenger seat.

“Fuck off, Joe. My shoes are off!” shouts Pete. His shoes aren’t off, but he does at least take them off as soon as he’s said that, placing them carefully on the roof next to him.

Patrick is not nearly as athletic as Pete, especially not now - weaker and muscles pulling painfully as he attempts to lift himself onto the roof like Pete had. Pete’s hands cover his arms and he helps, pulling him up and giving him room.  

If Pete sees the way Patrick’s arms shake slightly as he crawls beside Pete, he chooses not to say as much, though he’s quick to pull him close and wrap an arm around his shoulders as Patrick sits down beside him, pushing off his own shoes. 

“It’s pretty, huh?” says Pete softly, gesturing up at the night sky. They both look above them for a long moment, at the beautiful scattering of stars. “You know what we’re looking at?” Pete asks as they both stare. “I’ve seen your astronomy books at home.”

“I’ve bought astronomy books. I never read them,” Patrick admits quietly, regret colouring his words, because he wanted to. He thought… he thought he’d have — time. 

He frowns up at the stars, pushing up his glasses. The vastness of the emptiness above them sort of makes his heart hurt a little, but he doesn’t want to think about that. He so badly doesn’t want to think about things that are empty. He glances at Pete, beautiful Pete, who stares up at the sky above, eyes aching and dark with lack of sleep and forgotten unwashed eyeliner, the lines of his frown. 

Patrick swallows, looking back up at the sky, before he says quietly, “Mm, I dunno. I do think... If you squint kinda hard,” he raises his hand, pointing up to their left, “And consider the fact that, uh, Mercury is… in retrograde or whatever this month, I believe you’ll find that the scattering of stars over there… kinda looks like a dick and balls.”

There’s a second’s pause, in which the Black Eyed Peas song coming from the van’s radio is the only noise, before Pete laughs, loudly, a braying sound, leaning down into his knees. It’s a wonderful sound; Patrick can’t believe he’s gone without it for so long now. 

“Shit, I think you can see the fucking come, too,” Pete says through his laughter, pointing to the odd arrangement of stars that may or may not look like the crude imagining of two immature twenty-somethings on van's roof.

Soon, Patrick can’t help but join him, a chuckle low in his throat that grows until he’s leaning against Pete for breath, and it’s nearly painful, the way his chest aches with it and he gasps, but he doesn’t care. It’s the first time he’s felt this freeing feeling for so long.  

It trails off when he notices Pete isn’t laughing anymore, but he’s watching Patrick with riveted eyes, smiling still. “Wow,” he says fondly; then whispers, “He laughs.”

Patrick’s returned smile is a bit painful. “You’re good at making me forget.”

“Really?” Pete asks. “I thought I was terrible.”

“Well,” Patrick shrugs, looking back up at the stars but not feeling Pete’s eyes move from his face. “I think that’s mostly my fault.”

“None of this is your fault,” says Pete quietly. 

Patrick doesn’t reply for a moment, watching a star shine brighter than the rest and wondering if it’s a not so distant planet. He asks, frowning, wondering, “Do you remember your prom?”

“My prom?” Pete repeats, obviously surprised. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, kinda.”  

Patrick turns to face him. “Who’d you go with?” he asks, because there’s no way Pete didn’t have a date for prom. 

Pete’s frowning, but says, “Some blonde called Brenda… something. Cute girl; sweet, too good for me. I… wasn’t a great date.”

“You end up in another girl’s bed?” Patrick can’t help but ask.

Pete snorts. “Nah. But I ditched her for some of my soccer team friends right after we’d fooled around in the bathroom. Or… right after she blew me and I didn’t really feel like returning the favour.”

Patrick raises his eyebrows. “Classy.” 

“I was a douchebag at seventeen,” Pete admits.

“Mm. But not at twenty-five?”

“Not as much,” Pete says, and then pauses. “I think I’d be a much better person with a partner I had now.”

His tone isn’t exactly flirty, but it is tinged with meaning, and Patrick can feel Pete looking at him again. Patrick has his gaze trained back on the stars. He wishes they’d had a conversation like this before… last year, the year before. So much time wasted. 

“You remember your prom?” Pete asks.

“No,” replies Patrick. “Because I didn’t go to prom. We played a show, remember? At Evanston?”

“Right,” Pete nods slowly. “That was a wild one. Didn’t Joe try to get you laid after? Introduced you to that girl with the crazy mohawk.” He’s quiet, soft, smile gone. 

“Right. He said it’d be a shame for me not to get some on prom night, even if I didn’t make it to prom.” He shakes his head, eyes on the stars above them but thoughts entirely in the past now. “ _ That _ worked out. I think you cockblocked every chance I got with her. Pretty sure she ended up with the drummer of that lame cover band that went on before us.” 

“Yeah. Well,” Pete picks at some of the loose paint on the van; Patrick wonders how shrill Joe’s voice would get if he saw Pete doing that, “I didn’t think she was good for you.”

“We were gonna have sex, not get married,” says Patrick, watching Pete carefully. “Have you ever approved of a girl I dated?”

Pete shrugs, pulling up his knees and resting his arms on them. He meets Patrick’s gaze, stilling them both. “No,” he says quietly. “I guess not.”

Patrick swallows thickly, thinking — against his better judgement — of that kiss they shared after Mitch’s funeral. Is it so wrong to want to kiss Pete again, knowing what they know now? His throat aches, tight, with the want for Pete’s lips on his before they walk into that hospital tomorrow morning. He can’t let himself do that though, for a million reasons; they’d never stop, for one, and there’s so much he still has to tell Pete.

Pete looks away first, blinking down at his jeans. “Why’d you wanna know about prom?” he asks. 

“I don’t know,” Patrick admits, picking at the same loose paint Pete had been picking at, “I guess I’ve been thinking about things I missed. About things I… will miss.”

“Patrick, don’t—”

“I never really regretted not going to prom,” Patrick says quickly, covering Pete’s voice with his own. “Even now… Kinda wish I’d gone just to say I did, but I don’t feel that bad, ‘cause… you know, if I went, I wouldn’t have played that show with you.” Patrick swallows, that familiar tightness against his chest and throat clutching his insides. “And it’s our shows I’ll miss, you know? So much. Like, I never thought in a million years that singing in front of hundreds, thousands, of people is something I’d ever do. But I did do it. And… and I love it, and I—” He takes a breath, grabs hold of Pete’s hand. “I wouldn’t sing at all if it weren’t for you.”

Pete’s eyes catch Patrick’s; he shakes his head. “Don’t… Don’t fucking  _ thank  _ me now, it’s not— you don’t have to—”

“I’ll miss everything about Fall Out Boy,” Patrick quickly goes on. “I’ll miss reading your notebooks, and I’ll miss Joe smoking weed and stinking up the studio, and Andy reading those stupid comic books just so he doesn’t have to deal with our arguments.” 

“Fuck- Shut up, 'Trick.” Pete’s eyes are wet, but Patrick won’t stop now. Not when he has so much to tell Pete.

“I’ll miss you more than anything,” Patrick whispers, staring.

Pete shakes his head viciously, looking close to recoiling now. “Shut the fuck _up_ , Patrick. I’m right here.”

“But if… I’m just saying— I’ll  _ miss  _ you, Pete. So much,” he says quietly. It’s the truest thing in the world even while he’s not sure how it can be. Patrick doesn’t know what comes after someone takes their final breath. But it doesn’t matter if he’s going to heaven or hell or getting reincarnated as a fucking snail. It doesn’t matter. He can’t imagine an afterlife, a reality, a place in space and time where Patrick being so far and so gone from Pete would make his heart – soul, being, whatever – do anything other than shatter and splinter with loss.

“No, you won’t,” Pete says, and his eyes meet Patrick’s again, expression broken, crumbled. “You’re not  _ going _ anywhere, you fucking asshole.” 

He’s going to cry again, and this isn’t what Patrick wanted, but he needs to let Pete know how much he means to Patrick. What if he doesn’t get it? 

Patrick shudders, wrapping an arm around Pete’s shoulders and pulling him in close against him. 

“I’m sorry. I just. I ache all over. And I’m so tired,” Patrick whispers. He watches Pete close his eyes. Patrick frowns, and aches, not in his constantly sore back or head or muscles — but in his chest, in his heart. He looks at Pete, and he wishes Pete were still laughing. “I don’t...  _ want  _ to die though. You should know that.”  

There’s a pause. Pete looks up at him, gaze heavy and wet and hard. “That’s good,” he says. “‘Cause you’re not  _ gonna _ .”

“I just…” Patrick shifts closer, watching Pete’s face as he moves his head and watches the blinking night sky above them. “It’s like all I can think of is the worse case scenario. All I… see in front of me is this— this  _ grey _ . This nothing. It’s like I’m already dead. But I just wanna…” He chokes on the words, and watches Pete’s eyes meet his again, and they’re both very still for several long seconds. “I wanna  _ live _ ,” says Patrick, a stinging behind his eyes making tears slip down his face. He makes himself be brave as he says softly, “I want to live and I want to be with you.”  

Pete makes a noise as he takes in a heavy breath, like a small gasp. He turns his body to Patrick and brushes his fingers over Patrick’s cheek, wiping it clean. “You can,” he whispers. “I swear to fuck you can.” 

Patrick closes his eyes and burrows his face in Pete’s neck and pretends that that can be true, breathing in his husky, sweaty scent. “Can you promise me something?” he whispers.

Pete makes a short noise in the back of his throat; Patrick takes it as an affirmative.

“Can you…” Patrick swallows, lifts up his head slightly. He starts again, “I don’t know what’s gonna happen tomorrow. I don’t know if I’m gonna wake up again after they put me to sleep— No, shut  _ up _ , let me say this,” he insists as Pete shifts, starting to protest again, “I don’t know what’ll happen tomorrow, and I hope the doctor comes out and tells you everything will be okay, God, but— but if she doesn’t...” Patrick pulls back so he can see Pete’s face. “I need to know you’re like, gonna be okay.” 

Pete pulls away somewhat. His eyes are red rimmed and full of desperation. He opens his mouth but says nothing. 

“Promise me,” Patrick says. “Promise you’ll, like… you’ll smile again. You’ll laugh. You’ll make stupid jokes with Joe and Andy. And you guys should make music together. I don’t care how. Joe’s not a bad singer — get him to practise and he could be really good — get him to sing if you really don’t want anyone else. But you should keep making music together. We’re awesome on stage together, and man, From Under the Corktree is great, you know it is.” 

“Fall Out Boy doesn’t matter without you,” Pete says. “You’re the… You’re so important, we can’t—” 

“Try,” Patrick insists. “Just try. It’ll be different, yeah, it won’t be Fall Out Boy at all. But… If I’m not here, you guys should keep making music together without me. Don’t let that go.” 

Pete stares down at the roof; he’s shaking his head, but he’s not protesting out loud anymore. 

“And you should… you should… meet someone. You still have the number from that girl you were talking to at Mitch’s barbecue forever ago? Call her.” Pete looks up to frown at Patrick, shaking his head head harder. Patrick reaches his hand out to cup Pete’s cheek. “Please. Just promise you’ll be okay.”

There’s a pause. Patrick watches Pete swallow, sniff, and then say slowly, “If you’re not okay, I promise I’ll try to be.”

Patrick thinks that might be the best he’s going to get. He also thinks that’s what Pete’s been doing ever since Patrick told him the first MRI results all those weeks ago. 

He takes a steady breath and nods before wrapping his arms back around Pete and burrowing his head back in Pete’s neck, closing his eyes. Pete’s returning hug is almost suffocating in its intensity, and makes his back ache even further, but Patrick doesn’t care. He’d gladly hold onto Pete like this for as long as possible.   

“Can I ask you something now?” he hears Pete say quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Can I…” Pete pauses, and then says something Patrick knows he’s always wanted Pete to ask him: “Could I take you out to dinner?”

This at least gives Patrick the will he needs to pull back, facing Pete fully and staring for a moment. “I… What?”

“When… Wh—  _ When  _ you’re out of hospital,” Pete grabs Patrick’s hand, “I wanna take you out somewhere… Somewhere new. I’m not talking truckstop diners or Del Taco or one of our afterparties. I wanna take you out… somewhere nice, just the two of us.”  

“You mean… a date?” Patrick says on half a breath.

Pete nods slowly. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

Patrick feels himself smile. It’s somehow both incredibly easy to picture and also like looking into a blurred image, a funhouse mirror; Pete pulling Patrick into a restaurant they don’t know how to dress for, making fun of the posh waiters and failing to pronounce everything on the menu. “I’d like that,” he admits softly.

Between mentions of dinner and a date, Pete’s face has become much closer than it was before; Patrick can see every bit of gold dancing in his watery eyes. It’s impossibly difficult in the moment not to kiss Pete, so even though there are still a million reasons not to, Patrick leans forward and presses his lips to Pete’s.    

It’s chaste, Pete barely moving like doing so would break a spell woven between them. When Patrick pulls back, Pete’s eyes are closed.   

_ I love you, _ Patrick thinks. If there was ever a time to say it, it’d be now. 

“Pete,” Patrick says hoarsely. “I… I need to—”

“Holy shit—!” a shout from below makes both of them jump back, “ _ Patrick! _ Patrick, Pete! Get down here, look!”

Pete frowns, breaking the spell between them by looking away, pulling back, and leaning over the side of the van. “What?” 

“Get down here!” Joe is still shouting. “Both of you!”

Pete starts to lower himself down from the van’s roof, swearing under his breath, and after a moment of heart clenching frustration, Patrick moves to follow him. Pete helps him down, and Patrick leans heavily against him as his feet touch the ground, pins and needles jolting through his legs. 

Joe and Andy are shouting, whooping, Joe gesturing wildly to the radio while Andy tries to shush him; they quieten as Pete and Patrick hover by the driver side door and listen intently to the slightly static-whispered radio. At first, Patrick’s not sure what the big deal is. Then he realises he recognises the song playing.

But it’s not until he hears his own voice blare out from the speakers that he registers that this is a song he heard just a few hours ago through the speakers in his living room, now coming through the radio of their own shitty van (#2), on the  _ radio _ . 

“— _dying_ _to tell you anything you wanna hear, cause that’s just who I am this week—_ ”

“Holy shit,” says Pete.

“We’re on the radio!” Joe laughs, but Patrick holds up a hand to both of them, begging for quiet, half afraid he’ll stop focusing on the song and it’ll turn into something that isn’t them, right there, on a national radio station.

The four of them are silent as they listen to the song play, right through to the end.

After it’s finished, the radio host’s voice whistles, apparently impressed. “That was Sugar, We’re Going Down, by new up-and-comers —  Fall Out Boy! Keep an eye on them, people, we’ve been bombarded with support and cries for that single all day! I think they might be going places.”

The pause that follows is deafening in its intensity as the DJ’s voice fades away and an ad for Walmart starts playing. Patrick isn’t listening, Patrick is choked up, something like a laugh clawing its way from the back of his throat. 

“Patrick...?” Pete says cautiously. The unsaid, “ _ are you okay?” _ hangs in the air, though Pete knows better by now than to ask that question out loud. 

Patrick answers honestly anyway, “Yeah.” He smiles faintly at the three of them and is surprised by the truth in the words. “I’m here.”

He’s quite certain he won’t feel like this tomorrow, on the way to the hospital where it’ll be make or break, will or won’t, life or death. 

Patrick doesn’t know what will happen tomorrow, but right here with his friends in a field in the middle of nowhere, with Pete and the 50/50 prospect of everything he’s ever wanted with Pete, with their song on the  _ radio _ , Patrick thinks he could be okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading. please feel free to leave a comment if you'd like, i'd love to know what you thought.
> 
> i'm also over on [tumblr](https://1833outboy.tumblr.com/) too- come say hello! i like talking to people even though i suck at it. (you could also [reblog](https://1833outboy.tumblr.com/post/187843848026/said-ill-be-fine-chapter-8-1833outboy) the chapter if you'd like!)
> 
> i hope to see you next chapter, hopefully it won't take nearly as long to update.


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